


you've ripped your stitches

by GlobHerman



Series: stitches [1]
Category: Tomb Raider (Video Game)
Genre: F/F, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-10-04
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 86,859
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3952168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlobHerman/pseuds/GlobHerman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re bleeding.” Which is exactly what you <i>are</i> doing, although you don’t remember it ever starting.</p><p>“I-“ Your words die on your lips because you can’t explain what you don’t know. “Yeah. I’m… I guess I am.” You let the stitch that you suddenly feel between your fingers drop onto the stain you’ve made on the sofa, before Sam notices it mixed in with the blood covering your hand.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Bacon

You've been through two weeks of hospitals and excessive resting. You assume you'd be climbing up the walls if you weren't so tired that you feel you deserve a breather after all you've been through. Or a bunch of breathers. You aren't sure how long the standard breather lasts. Either way, you've been exhausted for two weeks, you've been exhausted for longer than two weeks. You've been exhausted since you set foot on- no, since you were tossed unceremoniously onto that damn island.

You've been watching an unauthorized, unofficial, and rather inaccurate documentary series on Netflix. Reading would be preferable, but the last time you tried that you spent twenty minutes reading the same page because you had to keep rewinding two sentences to remind yourself the context of your current sentence. The effort was so frustrating, and embarrassing, if you're being honest, that you've not cared to try again. Nothing substantial, anyway. You've been keeping up on the stories about you in all those trashy magazines that Sam brings home. So rather wonky (and consequently rather entertaining) documentaries have been your main source of entertainment. There isn't much else to do when people keep telling you that the best thing that you can do for recovery is literally nothing. Especially when you have one Samantha Nishimura watching over you as you do nothing, ready to leap into action to prevent you from potentially doing a something.

It's only when you hear the doorbell ring, followed by the door being opened loudly, and a loud announcement of arrival from Sam after loud footsteps enter the door (the day after you were released from the hospital you had a small freak out when she joined you in the living room after you hadn't noticed her enter the house. She's been making a big deal of letting you know where she is since then.) that you realize you've been staring at the "are you still watching" screen for what has probably been a long time. You quickly stab at the remote to get episode thirty-something playing as your right hand absentmindedly twitches at your abdomen. Your fingers feel kind of sticky, which is strange because you haven't been snacking on anything. As Sam enters the room your return greeting is cut off when she quietly gasps. You follow her line of sight down to your own stomach. Oh.

She quickly rounds the sofa and drops down beside you. "Oh, sweetie," she says softly as she pushes your sticky red fingers aside. "You're bleeding." Which is exactly what you  _are_  doing, although you don't remember it ever starting.

"I-" Your words die on your lips because you can't explain what you don't know. "Yeah. I'm… I guess I am." You let the stitch that you suddenly feel between your fingers drop onto the stain you've made on the sofa, before Sam notices it mixed in with the blood covering your hand. She starts lecturing you on how you need to be more careful because popping your stitches might make you worse, especially if you ignore it when it happens. And you just nod at her as you hold your bloodied hand out in front of you, wondering when exactly you started ripping them out. You quickly drop the hand when you realize that you should probably pay more attention to her.

"Why didn't you call me? You know I would've come home right away to take you to get patched back up." You do know she would've, and you don't have an answer. But she's staring at you with nothing but love and concern, so you settle with a quiet, short apology as she fusses about to find some bandages to control the bleeding during the car trip back to the hospital. While you wait for her, you stay sitting in the slowly spreading stain of your own blood. You don't really care about your clothes, but you idly think about how you're going to have to buy a new sofa. Sam returns with some supplies and you, almost vacantly, watch as she wraps your wound with the same caution one would use when handling a newborn kitten.

Eventually she lets you up, and after you follow her to the car you try to grasp at some words again. "I didn't," you start to explain. After a long pause you decide to just let whatever it was that you were going to say drop and instead apologize once more. Sam looks at you with an expression on her face that you've seen a lot of lately, although you can't decipher what it means. You know you fucked up, but that look just makes you feel worse for some reason and you still can't think of anything to say before she turns her eyes to the road and puts the car into first. You say sorry one more time, belatedly, and the apology awkwardly tumbles out of your mouth along with "I love you," and "thank you," and everything sounds so jumbled to you that you wish you could scoop the words up and shove them back into your mouth. She understands it all clearly though, and forgives you without a thought. When you hit a stop light she turns back to you with that same expression on her face and breaks the silence with a simple response. "I love you too, Lara." Her expression changes and now she's smiling at you, albeit a somewhat sad smile. Your stomach drops along with your gaze and your fingers twitch at your abdomen again.

When you return with a brand new set of stitches you find yourself feeling even more exhausted, which you didn't know was possible. While you unpack the takeout that was picked up on the drive home you hear rustling coming from the living room. As you walk into the room a few minutes later, two full plates in hand, you notice the garish paisley blanket that's been draped over where you had been sitting. Very subtle. Handing a plate to Sam, you sit down beside her, placing yourself back at the what you feel to be the scene of a crime. She starts to playfully argue with you about whether you get to resume episode thirty-something of your documentary, or if she gets the remote for a change. You argue back, and poke fun at her choice of television, partially for the feeling of normality you get from it.

As you get ready for bed, Sam insists on wrapping a bandage over your wound. As if it will somehow prevent your stitches from accidentally tearing again. You know they won't, unless you've suddenly become proficient at tearing at them in your sleep. Not that you were exactly conscious of what you were doing earlier in the day, but you think that sleep-stitch ripping is probably a bit of a stretch. Either way, you let her do it because you know that it'll make her feel better, let her sleep better knowing you're safe.

You, on the other hand, do not sleep better. You have dreams every night, but they vary from somewhat pleasant to rather upsetting. They don't really vary in content much but the context is what matters.  _They_  are in nearly every dream and  _they_  are always dead and  _they_  always either forgive you or try to get you to join them. The former is bad because it's your goddamn fault that they're gone and why in the world should that be forgiven? The latter is worse because you miss them so goddamn much that you'd give anything to spend just another day with them and the implication of that entire mess of a dream is something you try not to think about too much. At the same time the first is good because  _you are forgiven_  and Christ, does it feel good to have that weight lifted from your chest, even if it settles right back down where it had been when you wake up. And the second is good because you  _could_  join them and sometimes you actually do, which is when it loops back around to why it's much more of a bad dream than a good one. But at the time, when you're dreaming it? It feels pretty good. Which out of the four dreams you dream seems to depend on your how headspace has been throughout the day.

Tonight though, tonight it's an off night where your dreams are downright nightmares and are instead filled with screaming Solarii, ghostly images of Himiko, and Mathias' grinning face. Whenever any of those drop by for the night, you never end up getting much sleep. So when you snap awake in a cold sweat for the second time in three hours, you decide to give up for the night. As you rise from the bed, you give Sam a quick peck on the forehead (which causes her to flinch in an adorable manner that almost makes up for the sleep you'll be missing), then head out to fill a glass with water. You snag a couple of the prescription painkillers that Sam insisted you fill, because your new stitches actually do slightly hurt and you just can't be bothered with that right now. You walk softly into the living room and sit down on the opposite side of the couch, ready to resume episode thirty-something.

When you open your eyes again you feel your shoulder rocking back and forth. As you blink the sleep away you realize that the rocking is Sam lightly shaking you awake. You'd think that somebody who wants you to get as much recovery sleep as possible wouldn't be spending their time waking you up, but then she asks why you've been sleeping sitting up on the sofa and you realize that she might be a little concerned about you. You don't actually remember falling asleep, but you had felt a little cloudy after the painkillers and the episode after episode thirty-something is a blur. A quick glance at the TV and you see that episode thirty-something is now episode forty-something, and the screen is paused and is once again asking if you're still watching. Your attention snaps back to Sam, and, despite the fuss you know she'll make of the issue, you start to explain how your nightmares kept waking you up. You get to the part about how the painkillers must have helped you drift off for good when you suddenly realize something and the thought drops from your brain to your mouth and you're saying it out loud before you even realize that maybe you don't actually want to mention it. "I didn't have any more dreams after I fell asleep out here on the sofa." You wince at the connection you think you've made but it floats over Sam's head because she's just relieved that you ended up getting some sleep. Although she does take the time to point out that it would be better if you actually stayed in bed. Another "I know I fucked up I'm sorry" apology starts to form on your tongue but you don't get the chance to say it, as Sam keeps going off at you. "And I know you know that staring at a bright screen isn't going to help you fall asleep in any way, shape or form," Yeah, you've lectured her on using her iPad in bed too many times to have the right to refute that, even if you weren't really trying to fall asleep. Her tone is less harsh as she finishes. "Besides, you should know by now that I will  _never_  get upset at you if you wake me up in the middle of the night to talk about anything."

What good is talking going to do? The only thing that would accomplish would be ruining Sam's sleep as well as your own. She doesn't need that, and you know damn well that she's been having nightmares too. You've woken up some nights only to hear her muttering to somebody who exists only in a dream. Sometimes you even wake up to her ever so lightly thrashing in her sleep. She hasn't woken  _you_  up to talk about it, and while bringing that fact up might actually lead to a healthy conversation, you're just so tired. Even though you just woke up. What a bloody mess you are. You rub at your temples, which Sam seems to take as another sign of poor sleep and you can feel another diatribe is coming up so before she starts, you stand up and start towards the kitchen. She swiftly steps in front of you.

"Woah, woah, woah. Where exactly do you think you're headed to?" Oh God, not this again. "You didn't sleep right, I think I can handle breakfast today." What she really means is "I'll bring you some blackened lumps of what used to be bread in a few minutes." You can cook yourself breakfast, for Christ's sake. You know she just wants to take care of you but sometimes she makes you feel like you're the damn Bubble Boy.

"Sam, please, just let me fry up some bacon. Maybe some eggs too, you know, just to mix things up for a change?" You'd also enjoy some toast that's a little closer to "rare" than it is to "so past well done that you could mistake what's on your plate for volcanic ash", but you keep that bit to yourself. "Nutrition, Sam. You know a big recovering girl like me needs her nutrition, right? Especially after a shit sleep." She sighs and crosses her arms and she's given in a lot easier than you thought she would.

"Fine," she huffs, and she probably does have some inkling that you're trying not to insult her cooking skills (or lack thereof), "but I'm going to come sit on the counter and be completely in your way after I go take a quick pee." Her tone switches to dead seriousness. "I'll have you know, I was so worried when I woke up and you were gone that I came to find you the moment I noticed you weren't beside me. I wasn't even completely awake, right? And I tripped over your bunny slippers. Serious injuries could have followed." Then she quirks her head sideways, and smirks at you. You know she was just poking fun to lighten the situation after her lectures, but lately she's dropped the poker face while joking and instead seems to make sure you clearly know when she isn't being serious.

You smile back at her, and roll your eyes. "God forbid your bladder suffers even a second for my sake," you quip back, following up with a dismissive wave towards the bathroom. And despite any evidence otherwise, you still maintain that those are  _not_  your slippers, you were not the one that purchased them and well, okay, so what if they  _are_  kind of comfy? For the sake of keeping up the joke (and  _only_ for that reason), you quickly retrieve the offending bunnies and slip them onto your feet. You return to the kitchen, and soon you're placing some bacon into a sizzling pan. As you reach for some eggs to fry up, you spot the bottle of painkillers on the counter, tucked between a bowl of fruit and the fridge. The lack of dreams… that was just a coincidence, right? Staring dumbly at the bottle of meds that you didn't even want in the first place, you keep your back to your quickly crisping bacon. A second later, Sam energetically pops into the kitchen and you tear your eyes from the pills and return to the bacon, realizing that you need to get it out of the pan ASAP or Sam is going to have some new cooking ammo against you. As you scramble to find the flipper, she, as promised, hops up onto the counter and leans over, obscuring roughly 80% of your vision. "I hate to be the one to bring this up," she says, tapping her fingers on the counter, "but this piggy is looking crispy as hell, Lara." Trust her to bring that up. You're pretty sure that you might find her over the fence of some farm one day, fork in hand and ready to chew on whichever poor animal makes the first moo. For being the over-cooker of the century, you'd think she'd at least be a fan of well done meat.

Despite the face following in front of your own, you do get the bacon out of the pan before it's in a state that Sam would deem inedible (unless she was the cook, of course). She harumphs as she leans over the plate, and pushes on one of the pieces until it snaps. You turn to give her a look, but she's already giving you one, a single eyebrow quirked up as if some slightly crisp bacon is proof that you're not fit to be cooking. You settle for a scoff instead, and lightly whack her hand with the flipper. The reward for that is a gasp of "how dare you?" as she hops off the counter to wash the grease from her hand. Returning your attention to the pan, you smile to yourself at the normality of the morning, especially after the slightly rocky start. You can't get upset with her though, because you know that part of her worry is that you'll just be gone one day. She won't admit it, but you know that she feels better, safer, when you're around, hence the counter hopping and lack of personal space bubble. And if you're honest, things go better with you when she's around. If she hadn't needed to leave the house yesterday, you probably would still have the same stitches you had less than twenty four hours ago. So yeah, you can live with the lectures ( _maybe_  you actually do deserve some of them), you can live with a Sam-shaped blindspot when she's feeling especially clingy, and you can live with the over-protectiveness. You can also admit that you share a lot of the same concerns, you just don't show it the way she does. You wish you could show it better, but you have a hard time showing much of anything lately, except when things somehow end up normal for a bit like they are right now. Sam comes back, hands sparkling clean, just as you're about to slide the eggs out of the pan and onto some plates. She follows you to the small table in the designated non-sofa dining area, and after you exaggerate the presentation of what is probably the simplest meal ever, you take a swift bow. Sam chuckles and plays along with a tame golf clap, but you don't miss the way her eyes dart to your abdomen as your bow stretches it quicker than you assume she thinks it should. You falter for a moment as you sit down, contemplating confessing the case of the torn stitches. But by the time you've picked up your utensils you dismiss telling the disaster inducing story and you find yourself looking back up at her, a smile back on your face. She makes a big deal of searching for the least cooked pieces of bacon, and you roll your eyes at her. In a sad attempt to de-crisp some of the bacon, she soaks the strips in the yolk from her eggs. Sighing, you shake your head and chuckle at her antics. But despite the short return to normality and despite the laughter since lecture time ended, you feel that all this is is avoidance. It's obvious to you now that there are a lot of conversations that you should be having. You aren't though, and with that realization, you can't help but worry about exactly how badly fucked up the both of you might be.

* * *

_i still feel the cadence of a former life_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! So you've perhaps worked out that this is not the place to be if you want action adventure exploration Lara. It's all good, just figured I'd point it out so you can jump ship if you'd prefer to read about tombs being raided. Go ahead and take that as a double entendre, there's not gonna be any frickfracking either, sorry.
> 
> Anyway, there might be things in these first few chapters that contradict themselves. I know. Bear with me.
> 
> The end of each chapter will probably have a line or two of lyrics from a song that I feel fits the chapter. I like music. It's nice.
> 
> I'll also point out that the only canon that's gonna be acknowledged here is the game. I haven't read 10,000 Immortals yet, from what I've heard about it I probably don't want to? I have been reading the comics, but I don't want to deal with their continuity, although I don't think I'm going to catch up to where I presume they start, timeline-wise. However, if my writing keeps actually following what I've planned, then the end of this will, in a way, tie into the ROTTR trailer.
> 
> I'd love to promise steady updates. I have a decent chunk written (for my track record, anyway), but if my mood changes, my writing speed does too. So I apologize in advance for any excessive breaks.
> 
> Anything else? I don't think so.
> 
> Please enjoy reading as I enjoy making my faves suffer.


	2. The Alley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"It seems you were pretty lucky to even get to the mainland, yes?”_
> 
> _Struggling to find words that don’t contradict how “lucky” you were, you let the first coherent thought that comes to you answer the somewhat upsetting question._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Flashbacks are in italics, flashbacks within flashbacks return to regular formatting. Make sense?

As you're finishing the last of your breakfast, you're caught unaware as Sam flicks the corner of her last piece of bacon at you. The knife you were using to cut your eggs is still in your hand, and your face hardens as you effortlessly spin the knife your hand, grip it tightly and point it at her. The way she's frozen up, the look she has in her eyes, immediately tell you that you just fucked up. Kitchen utensil threats (more specifically, knife threats) don't really feel all that funny anymore, you quickly realize. Dropping the knife causes a loud clatter, and it's the only noise in the room. You try to pick the bacon out of your hair as humourously as you can, but you can't help feel that you've just undone the whole morning in that one stupid move. When you finally retrieve the crisp meat, you flick it back at her with a smile that you hope looks apologetic. Crunching the bacon between her fingers, she takes a deep breath, and you feel like she's stopped short of saying… something. You feel compelled to apologize once again but you end up also holding your tongue, for a change. That odd expression is back on her face and the two of you sit and stare at each other for a few more seconds before Sam flashes a smile that looks horribly forced. Your eyes flicker away for a second before they meet hers again and you do your best to smile back as she spins her chair, and stands up. However, she still looks like she has something to say. You prepare for the worst as she starts speaking. "I should go shower." She turns to leave, and you're quite sure that that wasn't the pressing issue.

The second she's out of sight, you slump slightly in your chair and roll your head forward to watch the smiling bunnies on your feet bob as you anxiously tap them.  _Goddammit._  You don't deserved to be smiled at, so you kick the bunnies off your feet and across the room. A minute later, the knife violently joins the bunnies. Remains of egg yolk fly off the knife as it hits the floor, and most of it splatters across one of the bunnies' face. For a moment, the yellow yolk turns red, and now the bunny is smiling brightly at you through a cover of blood. You force your eyes shut, and keep them that way long enough so when you next open them, the red is once again bright yellow. You push your chair out from under yourself and go to clean your literal mess. You'd love to clean the figurative one too, if only you knew how.

Sam finishes showering, and you finish doing the dishes. You drop onto the sofa, and Sam appears. She's fully dressed and ready to go out and deal with the media again. A few seconds and a quick goodbye kiss later, she's out the door and you're alone again.

You're sitting on your blood stained sofa, mentally prepping yourself for another day all alone. Which is something you don't allow yourself to complain about because it's a choice that you made. The fact that you could go out somewhere, so as to not be in total solitude, hasn't occurred to you. You've been more focused on your decision that you want nothing to do with interviews, publicity, any media at all. Not after the disaster that was the first interview you did shortly after being released from hospital.

_You've settled down into the oversized, overstuffed chair that fits the odd aesthetic of the room you're feeling trapped in. You really don't want to be here and you really don't want to talk about this, but like you told Sam, you just want to get this over with (how naive, thinking you'd be able to do the media thing in a nice, easy, one and done interview). Waiting for the man who you're about to play twenty questions with, you fidget with your hands and try to get comfortable in the huge, soft chair. For some reason, you can't and instead you try to occupy yourself by looking around the room, surveying it. As you do, you can't help but pick out the best possible escape routes, take note of items that could be used to defend yourself if needed. When you look to the actual exit, you see Sam watching from the door and she smiles at you and gives you a double thumbs up. A few minutes later Mr. Twenty Qs shows up and wastes no time getting down to business._

_The first few questions are all pretty standard, if a little boring, and you begin to feel yourself relaxing. You can explain archaeological theories, you can talk about which theories interest you, you can even push yourself to talk about the theories that led you to Yamatai. Then Twenty Qs asks the question that starts to send you spiralling, "Now, from what I understand, there were a veritable ton of wrecked ships littered around the island. It seems you were pretty lucky to even get to the mainland, yes?"_ the hatch above you is shut tight and despite your efforts to open it it's not budging and you're up to your knees in the water and you're getting desperate but it just isn't budging and the water is halfway up your torso now and even though you've still got room to breathe you're already gasping desperately for air and  _You take a deep breath and pull yourself back into your giant chair and out of the non-existent water. Struggling to find words that don't contradict how "lucky" you were, you let the first coherent thought that comes to you answer the somewhat upsetting question, "Yes, and it was that incredible luck that allowed us to make so many discoveries throughout our time on the island."_

_When Sam had sat you down before the interview, she heavily hinted that you should maybe perhaps leave out the whole immortal sun queen thing. Not lie about it or anything, just… omit the "crazy-town-banana-pants" bits. For your reputation, you know, because you don't want to start your career with some laughable fairy tale, like your parents. Not that your parents were crazy or wrong! But the rumours, you've heard them yourself, and you don't need to start your career surrounded by rumours like that, do you? You'll just tame the stories down a bit. Same stories, no angry entities. You can do that._

_Sam didn't need to suggest that you leave out as much detail as possible, when it comes to how you "made your discoveries". The details of what happened on the island haven't been leaked much. You don't need, or want, to casually discuss what you had to do in order to survive._

_"I notice that you used the words "us" and "our" in your last answer. From what I've heard, you were the only actual archeologist that returned from the trip,"_ you're clumsily stumbling the only reason you're standing at all is because roth is there supporting you and he's stumbling back with you and there's a handful of men starting to surround you and you're still stumbling as roth starts shooting and all of a sudden you're spinning around and your view has changed and mathias is there and mathias has an axe in his hand and mathias is throwing the axe and now you're falling backwards and roth isn't holding you up anymore roth isn't holding you up anymore and he's stumbling more than you were and roth has an axe lodged in his back and you're on the ground utterly useless and oh god roth  _"but I presume you all worked together while making these historical discoveries. I realize this is probably a tough topic to talk about so soon, but do you feel that those who didn't come back would have considered the trip to be the most successful of their career? It's certainly kickstarted yours."_ whitman's ranting at you he's ranting about playing along with these insane rituals because the bastard actually seems to think that playing along will not only get him (and  _maybe_  the rest of you) off of this island but that it'll also lead to some significant discovery as if you haven't found enough mythological and historical shit already and the fucking bastard  _gave them Sam_  he gave Sam back to them that son of a bitch doesn't care about anything other than his career he betrayed all of you and  _"They. Yes." Your words are coming out broken and you're losing the ability to speak with multiple syllables, but you take a look around the room and see Sam standing at the door. She's mouthing something at you. You miss it the first time, but she repeats it: "You're okay. Breathe." So you breathe, and you find a few extra syllables in that breath, enough to finish answering the question. "I do believe that they would feel that way. I don't know how anybody wouldn't. We- I haven't even finished cataloguing all of our discoveries." You've actually barely started, but you aren't going to broadcast that._

_Mr. Twenty Qs doesn't notice your stutter over the word "we", but Sam does and you look out the room again to see her silently watching you, the mysterious expression on her face. You turn your attention back to Twenty Qs as he starts another question. "Now obviously Yamatai was a dangerous island," You must have been rubbing at a cut on your cheek. His eyes aren't meeting yours at the moment, and are lingering on the visible wounds on your face. You chose to wear clothes that would cover as much of you as possible, but he clearly saw you rubbing at the cut on your cheek. You don't like where this is going, the last few questions have been bad enough and you don't know how much more remembering you want to do right now. You want to go back to boring standard questions. You would answer boring standard questions for eight hours straight, if only he would go back to them. "We've heard from some of the other survivours that you were pretty much the one responsible for getting the lot of you back from the island. Would you say that you had to face a fair amount of hardships to survive? Again, there were so many wreckages that you must have known from the start that the odds were against you."_ you're wading through a river of blood and you're falling and you're sliding down steep cliffs you're being held down and beaten and you're setting fire to dozens of buildings and you're trying to brace yourself within an incredible windstorm you're climbing impossibly high mountains in the snow and you're fighting no you're killing dozens of men each one more brutally than the next and you're watching your rescue plane crash and it's all happening at once and you're about to stab yourself with a super heated arrow tip  _And suddenly you find your hand at your side, your fingers tapping at the stitches and scar tissue through your shirt. You can taste pennies in your mouth and you feel bile burning the back of your throat. You've been quiet for a while, too long, you assume, because you can see Sam looking at you again. But this time she isn't saying anything to you, she's just staring at you with worry plastered all over her face. Mr. Twenty Qs is staring at you too, minus the worry. How can he be asking you these questions? How does he think it's okay to be asking these things? Sam had warned you that people were going to be insensitive but you hadn't expected anything like this. You should have, because now your mouth is full of pennies that you can't seem to spit out and you can't swallow back the bile that's burning your throat and you're excusing yourself, and you're pushing your way through the door. Behind you Twenty Qs is throwing his hands up in a "what?" manner and you can hear footsteps that you assume to be Sam's behind you. You don't stop though, instead you crash through the nearest emergency exit and the moment you're out that door your stomach is up. A few seconds later, as you're wiping your mouth with the back of your sleeve, you feel a hand on your back. You're on high alert and the hand causes you to panic and you whip your arm backwards, knocking the other arm away from you. Then you remember the footsteps behind you as you were rushing out of the building and you turn to see Sam, who immediately drops the arm she had been nursing when she notices you've turned to her._

_You're tapping your foot against the outer wall of the building because you can't keep still and Sam silently takes a careful step towards you. You can't keep eye contact and you turn your head to the side to focus on a crack in one of the bricks in the wall. Sam takes another step towards you. "Hey." When you don't respond, she risks another step and she's close enough to you now that even with just your peripheral vision you can almost meet her eyes. That's when you break. You close the small gap between the two of you and cling on to her so tight that she'd probably complain under different circumstances._

_"I'm sorry." Your speech is impaired by the shallow breathes you're taking but you keep going. "God, Sam, I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." You keep repeating your apology and it's almost become a mantra by the time she interrupts you._

_"Lara." Hearing her say you name silences you, but you're still frozen in place. "Lara, sweetie, look at me." You don't, you're still clinging to her and you don't want to let go so you bury your face in her neck instead. She seems to understand and continues anyway. "Listen to me, okay?" You nod into her. "It's not your fault." You know she can feel you take a deep, shaky breath. "Keep listening to me, okay? It's not your fault. None of it was your fault." You can't hold it in anymore and an ugly sob escapes you. "You're okay. We're okay. We made it home. We're off the island, and you're okay and I'm okay." Another sob as her words inadvertently stab you. The two of you made it off the island, but how many others didn't?_

_"I shouldn't have let you do this so soon. I should have told them to fuck off for even thinking of asking for an interview this soon." You sniffle, and give up on stifling any more sobs. "You did nothing wrong, okay? We shouldn't have done this. I'm so sorry, sweetie. I shouldn't have let you do this," She pauses every time your sobbing gets a little out of control, to make sure that you hear every word. "And you shouldn't have to answer those questions right now. Or ever, really. None of this was your fault. You're safe. And I'm safe too. You saved me, remember? You saved me and you have to let me help you now, okay? You have nothing, absolutely nothing, to apologize for, okay?" You're too busy sniffling and whimpering to respond, but you heard Sam's voice crack on that last "okay", and she's silent now. With the limited movements she can make while you're crushing her, she does her best to keep her arms wrapped around you and stands there as your anchor in the dimming light of that dirty alley, right beside a pile of your own sick._

_You don't know how long you stay there, crying, and clinging to Sam like your life depends on it._

You haven't done any interviews since then. It hasn't been very long since that interview, really, but the next time Sam brought up speaking with the media you said no. After she tried to change your mind by explaining that she would talk to the interviewer, do somewhat of a pre-screen, before you'd start the interview, you didn't say a word. You just sat there, arms crossed, not really listening. Not even when Sam was literally right up in your face. You just stared through her or away from her until she got fed up with you and stormed out of the house. Somewhere around the time you heard the door slam, you realized that you had just acted like a six year old throwing a silent fit.

When you got up the next morning, you found her sleeping on the couch. As delicately as you could, you woke her up to check on her. When her head had cleared of sleep enough that she could understand you, you explained to her that the reason you woke her up was because you thought it was strange she was on the couch and wanted to make sure she was okay. She sighed at you.

"You're all wounded and cut up and shit, and you need to heal properly. I couldn't just kick you out onto the couch, could I?" All you could do was blink at her. "So I kicked you from the couch to the bed. Or something like that. Go eat some food." She held your gaze with a glare as you backed away and then headed towards the kitchen. You wanted to go apologize for acting like a child, but you didn't know what to say beyond "I'm sorry". A ruffle of blankets indicated that she had covered herself back up to probably sleep some more, and your window for apology had disappeared.

But she's the one who's supposed to know all about the media. So she should be the one doing the interviews and such, because she knows how it works. Some details of what happened on the island have spread since the interview, although a lot of it is wrong or assumed to be made up. You don't care much anymore about how the media twists stories about it, either from absolutely nothing or from Sam's valiant attempts at speaking on your behalf. But you've never stopped to think about how she might feel about having to be the public face of Yamatai  _and_  Lara Croft. You've also never bothered to ask her. And as you get up off the couch and start unwrapping the bandage that she so carefully applied to your wound last night, you still don't think about either of those things.

* * *

_dig up her bones but leave the soul alone_

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was kind of a short chapter. Sorry?
> 
> I was gonna call it The Interview but that reminded me of that shitty movie so I said fuck that.
> 
> I don't watch TV interviews, and I don't really read many either. I guess that was tiptoeing the line of even being believable, but I needed questions for Lara to react to.
> 
> Did you know that it's really hard to switch back to writing these notes in first person, after spending time proofreading and fixing things in second person? You wait for an answer, but you're talking to the internet and the internet can't exactly immediately reply to you. When you reread the sentence you've just wrote, to make sure there are no spelling errors, I saw that I was fucking writing in fucking second person again and then I ruined any grammar that might have lingered by switching back to first. Okay, I exaggerated that, but I have actually had to backspace a few times.
> 
> Also, yes, I am, aware, that I use, probably far too many, commas.
> 
> Next up: The Forty-Sixth Episode


	3. The Forty-Sixth Episode

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It had a bloodstain,” is all that you state.

Some time later, after finally dragging yourself through a shower, you’re back on the couch and you find yourself staring at a red loading screen. You don’t really care enough to back track to find the last documentary that you remember watching, so you just restart episode forty-something from the beginning. When you took a look at your email this morning, Netflix had alerted you to the fact that a new episode was up and ready to watch. Which was nice, because you knew you were catching up to the end of the series but it also made you wonder what in the hell you’re doing with your time that some robot thinks it needs to let you know that you that you should run back to the television ASAP. Which gets you thinking some more, because that robot really didn’t need to waste its time on you because you’ve become a permanent fixture in front of the TV. Christ almighty, why are you wasting so much time doing nothing? No. No, no, you’re recovering. That’s what you’re doing. Not a waste, you convince yourself, you are not wasting anything. You focus back on the show and find out that your internal debate wasted up the intro, and you’re right in the middle of the badly constructed “historically accurate” recount of some true story that you’ve never heard of before.

After this morning’s events, you find yourself even more anxious than normal in your wait for Sam to get back home, because you think that maybe you should talk about how the morning went to shit. You know that you should be talking more about, well, everything, but you can never figure out how to start. Or even how to prompt Sam to maybe start for you. There’s also the fact that you would rather not talk about anything to begin with. That doesn’t seem healthy. You assume that that’s what people mean when they talk about bottling stuff up. Though you’ve not noticed Sam trying to bring anything up herself, with the exception of comforting you, but that isn’t really a conversation you figure. Your fuck up with the knife might be a starting point. Faux kitchen threats used to be common, but never before have you held a knife at Sam in quite that manner, and never before has she frozen quite the way she did the moment you had that knife up. You drift off into thought, memorizing some specific topics to bring up. 

You’ve been twitching and bouncing nervously since you started down this line of thought, and when you suddenly notice, you look down and your goddamn hand is at your goddamn stomach again. “What the hell is the deal with this unconscious obsession with my wound?” is now one of the topics at the top of your list. This is going to be good for you. You’re gonna get some of this out and it’s going to be good for Sam because it’s going to do the same for her. You glance down at your hands, which are now a safe distance from the hole in your side. Satisfied with your list and satisfied with your hands you decide to go back to doculand. Episode forty-something is near it’s end, which isn’t a big deal because not only did you figure some stuff out, you also can rewatch it whenever you want. The credits roll, and as they do, you contemplate getting up for a snack or a drink. Not worth it, you decide and look up just in time to see the countdown to episode forty-six. Good timing. You have an idea of where you need to start rewatching now. As always, you slightly zone out while the opening plays, because with the exception of a few cuts of different footage it’s the same thing every time and apparently that’s the point where your brain numbs up out of apathy. But then something flashes on the screen that you swear you’ve seen before, or something vaguely similar at the very least. And then another clip does the same. You will your brain to go to work a minute or so before it’s been conditioned to and it does so just as the title card flashes on the screen. Under the name of this atrocious series, the episode number and title are listed and everything on the screen blurs except for the word “YAMATAI”. You’re still listening to the narrator though, and after you hear his introduction to the replication of the true events that occurred on an island thought to be non-existent, your right hand reaches for your side while your left flies to the remote to smash at the power button.

After you take a few seconds to regulate your breathing, you sit in the now silent room wondering what the hell you just saw. Neither Jonah nor Reyes would have okayed anything like that, and Sam, even though you show no interest, always runs anything related to media by you before she makes any commitments. As your brain rapidly fires through situations, you reach back to the remote to get the TV going again because you have to make sure you didn’t just imagine that. When you hit play you hear the name of the ship, the names of your friends, and your own name. Your free hand makes it’s way under the paisley and starts scratching at the bloody bits of the sofa. When you notice, you retract your hand as if you’ve just touched burning coals and hiss out expletives. The show is quieted again and the remote is dropped. When you look down, you see that your hands are covered in blood, you feel pain radiating from the area where the stitches that you’ve currently forgotten about are, and the fucking sofa, the fucking sofa has blood all over it and you have to get rid of it. You need to do something about it, but you need to clean yourself up first.

By the time you realize that the bandage that you somehow got a hold of and wrapped around your middle is absolutely pointless, your hands are red and wrinkled from being under hot water for the past ten minutes. The water is still running as your wet hands pull at the bandage and then your shirt, under which the wound you swear was just open and festering is now stitched up and partially healed. You drop the bandage when you realize it’s wet from water, and not blood. The water pouring from the faucet is finally stopped, and you look up from the sink, meeting your own eyes in the mirror. Your reflection looks as lost and bewildered as you feel. Not wanting to look at that, you decide to go look at something else that you’d prefer to avert your eyes from as well. But you find yourself ripping that godforsaken blanket from the sofa anyway. And yeah, there’s blood soaked into the cushions, not as much as you thought there was, but it’s still there and it needs to leave. You start to enact the first plan that you come up with immediately.

When Sam arrives home a few hours later, you don’t hear her ritually loud entrance. You don’t hear her calling your name from the living room. You don’t hear her calling your namefrom the laundry room, more urgently this time. You don’t even hear when she enters your room behind you, where you’ve been sat in front of your laptop since what Sam just witnessed had occurred. “Lara?” You think you’ve heard something but, against your better judgement, you ignore it and keep scrolling through the thousands of results that Google has provided you after you typed a single word and then clicked search.

Sam is still standing behind you, a few steps away, trying to see what’s on your screen over your shoulder. She takes a step forward and when you still don’t react, she tries your name one more time. For some reason, the tone of it catches your attention and you finally turn in your chair to face her. You’re genuinely confused and ask her how long she’s been home for. She doesn’t say anything for a moment, and instead leans sideways so she can finally see past you to your screen. When she sees all the open tabs, and what’s displayed on all of them, she softens completely. “Oh, Lara.” Now that she knows you’re aware of her she wastes no time in coming to your side and dropping down to meet you at eye level. “Lara, what happened?”

And it’s not completely that you don’t want to talk about it, it’s more that you’re still so obsessed with your plan (which you’ve realized is terrible, but that’s not relevant right now) that you need to finish with it before you can do anything else. Ignoring her question, you reply by inquiring about what colour she’d prefer. She says she doesn’t care but you know better than that and you talk over whatever it is that she’s trying to say to you and ask again. This time she doesn’t lie to you, but instead stays silent and slowly closes your laptop, sending all the sofas you had bookmarked to sleep. You turn back to open it again, but her hand snaps up on top of the lid, and then on top of your hand, which she slowly pulls down so she can hold it with your other one. Your eyes follow your hand and when they see her hands holding yours, you look up to her face. “Lara?” It’s more of a question than an actual statement of your name and you pull your bottom lip between your teeth and nod at her. “Can you come out the room with me?” You answer in the affirmative, though barely loud enough to be heard, and she stands up and tugs lightly on your hands. You take the cue and follow her, away from virtual sofas, and back to your own. Which now probably looks like the scene of a crime to not only you.

Sam still doesn’t straight up ask you anything specific. She simply keeps hold of one of your hands and looks around the area. “Will you tell me what happened?” You would, if you had any semblance of a logical explanation for the bottles thrown around in a desperate attempt to find a container of bleach. If you had an explanation for the discarded bottle laying open on the ground. And you would definitely tell her if you had an explanation for the contents of said bottle being splashed all over your stain, and as a result of your frenzy, haphazardly all over the rest of the sofa as well as the carpet surrounding it. But you don’t, so you just pull your hand free and sit down on the least bleached bit of it. “It had a bloodstain,” is all that you state. She sits beside you, where the bleach is still probably wet, and probably ruins her pants.

“Yeah, it did. But it did last night, and this morning as well.” She follows your gaze around as you try to avoid hers.

For whatever reason, it made sense at the time. You try to think back and figure out what made you think this was the brilliant solution to… something that wasn’t really a problem? Why _did_ you suddenly freak out about it? “I was covered in blood.” You try to help her understand.

That prompts her to look down to your side, which is currently free of any sort of stain. She’s confused, you can see it in her eyes. “Sweetie, it was an accident. You can’t- well, I don’t actually know what you were trying to accomplish here, but you can’t dwell on it. You popped your stitches, it happens to people all the time, and I still don’t understand why you didn’t call me, but you didn’t have to do, um, this?” The sentence turns into a question because she still doesn’t get it, and is gently trying to push you to explain.

The worst part is that you don’t get it either, so instead of even attempting an explanation, you start to tell her about how you measured the spot you wrecked on the carpet, and how if you rearrange a bit, most of the sofas that you thought she’d like would probably cover the mess. You also tell her that you could just replace the carpet too, that wouldn’t be a big problem, you keep getting money for all these interviews that she’s been dealing with for you, (which you suddenly realize is something that seems very, very wrong) that you could very much afford to replace it if that was better. You could even fully redecorate at that point, if she wanted to, and you’d let her pick everything out and she could match the rug to the sofa and all of a sudden you hear your name. Your name, which she’s been saying repeatedly to try and get your attention since you began rambling about carpets and sofas. The ramble comes to a full stop the first time you actually fully register her saying it.

She has that look on her face again, the one from that punches you in the gut for some reason that you can’t explain, and you still don’t know what it means. “Breathe. Slow down, sweetie. Take a breath.” You do. “Okay. I’m going to go order a pizza, and then do you think we can maybe talk about this room as it currently is, and not as it might be in the future?”

Once again, the look and her tone breaks you a bit and your head drops to your hands and the apologetic mantra is back. “I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry, Sam. I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was doing, again.” She doesn’t pick up on the fact that you said “again”, or if she does, she ignores it. You’re grateful for that because you didn’t mean for that to slip out and right now is probably the worst time explain that you kind of but not really intentionally ripped out your stitches, although you didn’t know you were doing it. “I fucked up again. I don’t- I’m sorry-”

She cuts you off at that fourth sorry, makes you promise to stop saying it, and as a precaution, lifts the hem of your shirt to check your side before she gets up to find a pizza menu. You don’t know what the hell you’re going to tell her, and you don’t know what you should talk about. You’ve not only forgotten everything you put on your mental list earlier today, you’ve completely forgotten that you even had a list. You figure that you’ll just go along with whatever she wants, even if you have to make some stuff up. As you hear her dialling, you search for the remote, mindless distraction a welcome idea. When you find it, you press the power button and your thumb automatically goes to the rectangular Netflix button near the bottom. Just as the welcome screen finishes loading, it goes back to what you were watching, as you never properly turned it off. Within seconds, Sam walks back into the room and the estimated pizza arrival time dies on her tongue as she processes what has just finished buffering on the screen.

“What the fuck is this?”

Ah. Yes. That’s right.

Your beloved, trashy, unlicensed documentary series.

The forty-sixth episode of it, to be perfectly exact.

You let it keep running in the background as you lean back in your spot, trying to catch Sam’s attention over the back of the sofa. Looking at her upside down, you keep watching her, waiting for her to look down at you. Now that you remember this rubbish, you think you might be able to explain everything slightly better.

However, despite your best efforts to get an explanation going, it doesn’t ever happen. Sam’s been pacing around the room dialling phone numbers and yelling at the poor souls who’ve answered ever since she snatched the remote out of your hand to get more info on who created the documentary series. You figure you might as well let her go at it, since you already took your turn to lose your shit earlier today. You’re not really sure what to do while she’s climbing phone trees, yelling louder the closer she gets to the top of each. The room around you is in a bit of a mess, which is not new information, but you take some time to get a proper look at what you’ve done. It’s actually not so bad from where you’re sitting, so you get up and back up a few steps to take in the entire scene. You start by looking to your left, where the bleach bottle is laying on its side. The carpet under the mouth of it is deeply bleached from where small amounts of liquid are still dripping. You sweep right a tad and you’re looking at the sofa. Maybe you can pass it off as some sort of tie-dyed look. It’s splattered with bleached spots, obviously, but there are also bits where the bleach didn’t touch it. And some bits where you completely missed the blood. Plus some spots where the bleach didn’t completely remove your blood, and a few where it just made the blood go a funny colour. Yeah, no. You’ll just buy a new one, but in a calm, sane manner. You pan to the right again and Mr. Clean is staring up at you from the floor, along with various other mascots. You didn’t even know you had so many cleaning supplies, but seeing most of them scattered in a pattern leading from the laundry makes them easier to count. You occupy yourself by counting them and you only hit twelve before you’re interrupted by the doorbell.

The pizza. While you were waiting for Sam to settle down, you completely forgot about the pizza. Your memory seems to be a bit dodgy lately, but that’s something for another time (if you remember it). You consider just grabbing a few bills and sliding them out through the doorframe but you don’t know where your wallet is, and when you motion at Sam to catch her attention, she digs out a credit card and tosses it at you, all without removing her phone from her ear. Before you open the door, you take a quick glance behind you and silently bless whoever designed your flat, because you can’t really see much inside of the house from the door. You swing the door open and the pizza guy is suddenly treated to the sweet, sweet sound of one side of a heated argument. He does a good job hiding whatever he’s thinking as he takes the card from your hand to swipe it in his portable debit machine. As you punch in numbers, you notice him looking behind you at the few detergent bottles visible from his vantage point. Halfway through the transaction you notice for the first time that you yourself are also lightly splattered with bleach. Okay, maybe you can convince people the hoodie is meant to be pebbled. When Sam lets out a long string of rather rude words, Pizza Guy starts looking up and around at the sky. You “accidentally” cancel the transaction before it can finish processing, apologize for blunder, and then leave a much more generous tip than you had initially inputted. After he leaves, you patiently wait behind Sam until she finishes the call that she’s currently occupied with. When she does, you gently pry the phone from her hand. 

The fact that Sam pretty easily figured out what set you off coupled with the avoidance that you’ve both seemed to have agreed to has led to you not really having to do much explaining after all. The two of you are now sitting together on the couch, in front of a blank TV and a cold pizza. Sam’s voice is a little raw from her numerous phone calls, and the ass of her pants is indeed ruined. She’s curled into your side and her fists are clenched in your spotted hoodie. You’re sitting in what was your bloodstain, which, for some reason, isn’t bothering you at the moment. Despite the situation, cuddling with Sam on the couch is making things feel relatively normal. Of course, you’ve got a ton of thoughts running through your head and when you look at her, you can tell that Sam does too.

Turns out you were both thinking the same thing as the word “I’m” comes out of her mouth a second before it does yours. You follow up by echoing the “sorry” that follows. You look down at her, and she pulls away from you in order to meet your gaze. You don’t understand what she’s apologizing for, and by the look she’s giving you, you figure she’s thinking the same thing.

She stays silent as you start to speak, but instead of addressing the twin sorries, you go back to the morning. “Sam? I was thinking a little during breakfast this morning,” You pause to try and find better words. You don’t, and end up telling her what you told yourself. “I think that maybe. Uh, well, maybe we might be a little more. Maybe a little,” you suck in a breath and finish the sentence in a jittery slur, “morefuckedupthanwe’readmitting.” She had dropped back down against you while you struggled with what needed to be said, but now she’s looking up at you with that expression that you couldn’t decipher before. You think you have an idea now. 

Her face doesn’t change as she reaches up and boops your nose. “Yup.”

* * *

_there's a degree of difficulty in dealing with me, from my haunted past comes a daunting task of living through memories_

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ah, delicious denial, a lovely double dose of knowing and unknowing. 
> 
> Unrelated note: My soundtrack while writing, for no related reason has been the playlist Do It Better by ann.i.e on 8tracks. Go check it out. For one that I've been binge listening to that is a little more related, try See the Sun by shadocoon.
> 
> Look forward to: The Conversation


	4. The Conversation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s still just staring at you, apparently dumbfounded by the fact that you want to make an attempt to open up. The silence is unnerving and you make another suggestion, “Or we could eat first, and then talk?”
> 
> She looks slightly lost for a moment before she responds, “You’re. Okay, yeah… we can, uh, yeah. Sure.”

The cold pizza on the table is now colder and missing a pair of slices, after the two of you forced yourselves to have at least a small amount of supper. Sam doesn’t have any press or media stuff to deal with tomorrow, therefore you agree that a talk _might_ be in order. And then it was declared that the day needed to end and you are now curled on your side with Sam moulded against your back, the covers of the bed pulled up to your chins. She’s relaxed herself about as much as she can, but you can’t stop picking at your stitches. Which is an action that she interprets as you fidgeting because of pain. This again is really not the best time to start the “I seem to keep sabotaging myself for some reason” conversation, so you play along. Unfortunately, that has the side effect of alarming her, and she ends up poking around at the wound herself before she offers to get up to grab your painkillers for you. You had forgotten about them, mainly because you aren’t actually in pain. You don’t really answer, and instead make a noncommittal humming noise. She’s staring at you, waiting for you to properly yay or nay at her, waiting for you to do something other than give a vacant non-response. The stall drags on as you think about how you know you’re in for some terrible dreams tonight, and how you might actually be able to prevent them. You’re concentrating as if you’re working out some complex math equation, rather than deciding whether to swallow a few pills or not. Sam’s tapping her fingers against her thigh. “Right. So should I go, or?” She drags out the last word, killing the ugly silence.

Well, it can’t hurt to test a theory. It might have been a one time freak coincidence, or maybe you’ve actually gotten lucky enough to find something to help you sleep. If unnecessarily taking prescription painkillers is actually somehow a lucky thing. But you end up saying please and then when she comes back with the bottle and a glass of water you follow up with a thank you. A short while after downing the pills, you start feeling the same drowsiness that you recognize from last night. Before you drift off completely, you remember that neither of you followed up on your respective couch apologies. “Sam?” You’re not sure if she’s still awake. Turns out that she kind of is. She responds by muttering “yahuh?” into your back. This isn’t really an ideal situation, but even a sleep riddled answer might ease your mind a bit. “Why were you sorry?”

She shifts around a bit. “Wha?”

You should just leave this until tomorrow. You don’t though. “Earlier, on the couch. I was trying to apologize to you for, you know, but you were apologizing to me as well.”

“Oh.” Her sleepy voice seems to get smaller, and she almost sounds ashamed as she cuddles closer to you. “S’posed to protec you. S’my job.”

Her job is protecting you? You don’t remember when that happened. “Sam, what are you talking about?”

She’s clearly not at all awake enough to be talking about this, and she nuzzles her face against the back of your neck. You can feel her breath as she mumbles, “Tol’ me t’ stop with the innerviews. Hafta keep the assholes happy wifout botherin’ you.”

Oh God. You didn’t, you still don’t want to deal with any publicity, but you didn’t realize she was taking it so seriously, so strictly. You should have clued in when you stopped even getting phone calls asking about TV spots or magazine pages or _anything_. You should stop her now, talk about it in the morning. She’s slightly incoherent and you’re not sure she even knows that she’s actually talking to you. But she’s still mumbling, and because you’ve already fucked up so much today, a little more probably won’t make a difference and so you let her keep going.

“Don’ needta deal wif tha’ schuff. Shouldn’ hafta. Said you din wanna so I won’t make ya. Won’t let ya. S’my fault. Don’ know how I di’n know ‘bout that show. ‘Specially since you watch it so much.”

No. This wasn’t- or _was_ this what you wanted? You realize that yeah, it is what you wanted, but you didn’t want Sam to have to go through all the stuff that you yourself refused to. Though obviously if you weren’t doing it, somebody else had to. How did you not realize that? How did you not equate what she’s been doing for you as the exact same things that you would have to go through? She’s been out almost every day dealing with people, trying to contain everything that you’ve let loose. And you didn’t even take two seconds to think about how it might be affecting her.

“Messed up. Missed it. Gon’ hafta watch t’ make sure s’not anythin’ too bad.”

And now you understand why she gets so upset at all the bullshit rumours and such, everything that you’ve not cared about about. You don’t care because you aren’t the one watching their efforts end up pointless.

“I’ll fix it, k? Jus’ give me a little, k? M’sorry.”

You feel like somebody just reached into your chest, grabbed your heart and crushed it a little.

“Don’ get mad please. Didn’ know. Futz’d up. Tryin m’best. Not mad?”

You really should have waited to ask about this. You also really should taken even just one thought about what Sam’s been doing for you. You’re such an idiot sometimes. “No Sam, I’m not mad at you. It’s alright. We can figure everything out. Together.”

“M’kay. Still sorry though.”

“I know, Sam.” That hand clenched around your heart squeezes again. “Let’s go back to sleep.” Not that you were ever asleep, and not that she was really awake. You feel her nod against you anyway. “Oh, and Sam?” You do want to let her sleep, but you’ve got one more thing you need to say, especially after all that. She makes a low humming noise to indicate she’s still listening as you begin to fumble your words. “I love you. I don’t know if I say that often enough, so, just… I love you. A lot.” It sounded slightly more elegant in your head, but your mouth didn’t really keep on track with your brain. 

Your phrasing doesn’t really seem to matter to her, as she snuggles even closer to you somehow, and then sighs. She’s gone silent and you assume she’s properly asleep now, but just as your own breathing starts to even out you barely catch her belated response. “Nah,” The breath you were taking gets caught in your throat and you’re scared of what her next sleepy statement might be. “Love y’more.” _Oh, God._ You remember to breathe again and you cough slightly as the phantom hand sneaks back into your chest and gives your heart one more poke, for good measure.

As you fall deeper into your own slumber, you wonder if she’ll remember this in the morning, and you pray to whoever’s listening that the dreamkiller pills weren’t a one time trick.

In the morning, you feel gloriously rested. The pills did what you had hoped for, and although that worries you slightly, it was fantastic to have a dreamless night. Twice in a row, even. As you sit up you start thinking about this situation and your eyebrows furrow as you frown. You don’t think you like where this is leading. Still, you find yourself weighing the cost against the benefits. When Sam wakes up, you’re still sitting and frowning off into space. Having dealt with a similar situation before, she automatically assumes that you’ve had a dream that wasn’t so good. After arguing about whether it even was a dream that had you brooding, you end up using the good old “I just don’t want to talk about it” excuse.

Over the last few days, you’ve realized that your entire life at the moment is categorized under “I just don’t want to talk about it”. Now that you’ve noticed this fact, you figure that it isn’t the best option for your mental health. Far too late to make it sound like it was actually a part of the excuse to begin with, you force yourself to tack the words “right now” onto the end of the sentence. Sam was already getting out of bed, but she stops and does a double take. “Er, during breakfast?” You suggest. She’s still just staring at you, apparently dumbfounded by the fact that you want to make an attempt to open up. The silence is unnerving and you make another suggestion, “Or we could eat first, and then talk?”

She looks slightly lost for a moment before she responds, “You’re. Okay, yeah… we can, uh, yeah. Sure.”

The amount of surprise that she’s showing just because you agreed to talk about even just one little thing makes you uncomfortable. You feel more uncomfortable when you tell yourself that you’re going to talk about more than just one little thing. And now the fact that simply the thought of talking about these things is making you uncomfortable makes you feel even more uncomfortable, if that’s possible.

Somehow you convince Sam to allow you to cook breakfast again. It almost feels like she’s fighting you about it just to provoke you and something about it feels off. You’ll think about that later, you decide, and add hash browns to the menu. Making the extra food is partially a delay, as after Sam started speaking in full sentences again, she decided that she wanted to talk while eating. Presumably so you would have less time to worm your way out of it, which is fair enough, you think. However, you aren’t the only one that needs to open up about things, so at least you can play the “right-back-at-you” card if need be.

When you finish cooking, you bring full plates to the dining area again. You skip the flourish this time, and just sit down after the plates hit the table. You start spreading jam on your toast, and Sam grabs a handful of bacon, looking more pleased with the amount of crispness this morning. You concentrate much more than necessary on making sure that the jam is evenly spread over your toast, and Sam seems very invested in the arrangement of eggs on her place. When you’ve finally had enough of this is a painfully awkward “meal”, you decide to make the first move. For some reason you settle on simply saying one word, as if it’ll bust down all the walls the two of you have fortified. “So.”

Sam looks up from her plate and taps her fork restlessly against the table. “I guess it’s time to start talking?” She makes a face that you interpret as a move meant to lighten the mood. “Are you going to tell me about the dreams you’ve been having now?”

That wasn’t really the plan. While you were frying the eggs you remembered the mental list you had made yesterday, although the order of topics were jumbled. Still, your dreams weren’t really high on the list. Before you realize that it’s a very incorrect answer, you reply, “I’d rather not.”

She sighs and looks away from you. “Did we not _just_ agree on this, like, an hour ago?”

You never specified that your dreams were the main subject. “I don’t recall agreeing on anything specific.”

Seemingly frustrated, she exhales loudly. “What exactly have I agreed to talk about, then?”

Well. You never came up with a topic title. “Everything?” is the best answer you can come up with, on the spot.

“Everything.” Your answer was more of a question, and her question is much more of a statement. The amount of fun you’re having has already plummeted into three digit negatives, not that you were expecting anything otherwise.

“Yeah. The whole Yamatai situation we have going on right now, I suppose.”

She facepalms, rather dramatically. “Okay, so, let me get this straight.” She looks up at you through the hand that is still over her face. “You refuse to have a serious discussion for weeks, and now all of a sudden you want to talk about “the Yamatai situation”. Which I’m going to translate into “the current state of our lives”. Is that about right?”

You nod.

“Lara Croft, you are infuriating.” You won’t try and refute that. She taps her fork a few more times before waving it in the air. “Well, isn’t it handy that neither of us have anything to do today?”

After you finished being infuriating, Sam declared that she wanted to finish eating before she started talking. Apparently anything beyond your dreams isn’t polite breakfast discussion. When the two of you eventually finish and clean up, she starts to make herself another coffee and you decide to spend that time making yourself a tea.

The hot drinks that are about to be forgotten about are resting on the coffee table beside you, and you’re both now sitting on The Sofa. You’re propped up against opposite sides, both of you with your legs pulled up in front of you. She reaches out with her foot and pokes you with it. “So how about we start with why you won’t tell me about your dreams?”

One question, and you’re already feeling defensive. “Well, you haven’t even told me that you’ve been have dreams.”

“Wait. No, I… But…” You’ve successfully tripped her up, and as you give yourself a mental high five you realize that by doing so, you’ve started to destroy the point of this conversation. She recovers though. “You said you were going to talk.”

Technically, you are. “Isn’t that what I’m doing?”

She makes a displeased noise. “About yourself.”

“I don’t think that’s what I said.” It actually isn’t. All you did say is that you would talk about “it”, and “it” was never defined. 

You’ve never seen her roll her eyes so dramatically. But before she can say anything, you cut her off. “Sam, I can’t talk about this without you reciprocating. We’re a pair, we’re both struggling, and your problems are mine as much as mine are yours. Besides, you confirmed to me last night that you agreed that we’re _both_ avoiding pretty much everything that we should be confronting.”

She slaps her palms against her knees and huffs. “I did, didn’t I? Dammit. Fine. But 50/50. And you first, if only because you’ve been deflecting everything so far.” She’s suddenly the one on the defensive and you wonder what else she hasn’t been telling you. You wonder why you never even tried to ask.

You gesture your agreement, and decide to get things rolling with something simple. “I kind of panic whenever I even think about what happened on Yamatai.” After it leaves your mouth, you think that maybe your answer was a little _too_ simple.

“You don’t say.” Her voice is completely flat, and she’s making it as obvious as possible that she’s staring at a bleach stain.

Your voice raises ever so subtly. “Well, we have to start _somewhere_ , Sam.” 

As you watch her in silence, she takes a deep breath and puffs out her cheeks. After holding it for a second or two, she releases it. “Okay, okay. You’re right.” You think that’s all she’s going to say, and you start to figure out where to steer the conversation. She interrupts your thoughts when she asks, “Lara? Why do you suddenly want to talk all of a sudden?”

Because the last two days have made you realize that you’re slightly batshit and that you’ve barely talked about anything that’s troubling you. That you’ve barely talked, period. Because you also realized that there are a lot of things troubling you that you never noticed, or more likely, ignored. Also because you suspect that Sam might be in the same boat, although you can’t confirm that, as you’ve been such an idiot that you haven’t bothered spending much time to inquire or think about her state.

“Wow, alright. Well that’s… certainly an answer, isn’t it?.” Sam’s eyebrows are raised pretty high.

“It…“ You squint at her. Answer? “I said that all out loud, didn’t I?” You groan. “You know that I didn’t really mean? The part about you being batshit? That’s not necessarily what I should-“

She interrupts to make a frustrated sound at you, and stares at you with a faux expression of displeasure on her face, although you think you can see some real relief in there as well. “Sweetie, I’m not too concerned about every word you say right now, so long as you keep saying them. You said that you wanted to talk, so talk.” She leans forward and reaches over to brush some hair out of your face, and then lightly taps your head with her knuckle. “You’ve been locking everything up in there. You can’t keep on that way.” She crosses her arms when she leans back, she looks away from you. “And since we’re finally sharing, I’ll state the obvious; I’m guilty of that too, okay?”

“I could have at least been a little more tactful though,” You start an apology. “Really, I’m sor-“

She seems displeased with your apology and doesn’t give you a chance to finish before her voice raises a few decibels. “ _If you_. _Say sorry_. _One_. _More_. _Time_. _I will_ … fuck, I don’t know.” Through your shock at her outburst, you watch her think of a threat. “I’ll… _I will fucking cancel your fucking Netflix_.”

The amount of malice dripping from the rather pathetic threat causes you to pretend to scratch your chin, so you can hide the snort that you’re finding rather difficult to hold in. “I’m very afraid?” You decide it wouldn’t be wise to point out that you could resubscribe within minutes of her cancelling.

“Maybe I’ll do it anyway.” She mutters, mostly to herself. “If you don’t have anything to stare at for hours on end, you might actually leave the house.”

Huh? Why would she have to do that to get you to… your train of thought screeches to a halt when a quick mental recount tells you that you haven’t gone out anywhere other than to the hospital, when mandatory, since you tried to do the disastrous interview. “When _was_ the last time I…” The sentence trails off and you don’t bother trying to catch it, starting a new one instead. “I haven’t gone outside at all.” It’s a blunt statement, and you sound a bit defeated as you say it.

Sam looks at you incredulously, as if she can’t believe that you weren’t aware that you had basically become a shut-in. “Well,” She pauses and pretends to think really hard. “You did step out to get the paper that one day when it wasn’t quite on the doorstep.” She snaps her fingers and then points at you, like she’s solved a puzzle. Then, just like that, she switches back to complete seriousness. “Lara, did you really not know that you have barely left the couch since we’ve been home?” And now she’s staring at you with that look. The one that you’ve finally figured out. 

The look that you now realize means something along the lines of “Lara you’re kinda messed up and you don’t seem to notice that which worries me but I don’t know what to say or do so I’m going to look at you in a way that makes you feel bad”. You assume (hope?) that the making you feel bad portion was probably unintentional. 

“How long have you been watching me act like a total head case without saying anything?” Almost none of the questions that have been asked have been answered, but for whatever reason you feel compelled to know exactly how long Sam’s been watching you struggle without stepping in.

She waits a beat before answering. “The day you came home from the hospital?” The way she says it implies that you should take a look back over the last few weeks. You do, and through many of the things you remember, it becomes evident that she’s tried at least a few times to gently push you to talk. You just refused roughly ninety-nine percent of her efforts, and shut down the other one percent. You’ve been silent for a few moments while recalling events, and you’re not sure how Sam interprets it, but she seems to feel awkward about it and expands on her answer. “But to be fair, it’s not like you’ve been running around with a knife all stabby-stabby psycho style or anything. You just seem to be,” She’s searching for a word, probably the one that she thinks will be the least hard for you to hear. “Not quite yourself lately. Lately like, since we got our asses off of Yamatai. So actually, that’s a relatively short amount of time.” Holding her hand up, she pinches the air, indicating a small size of something.

Is the point of this not that the whole problem here is because of Yamatai? “But you wouldn’t even have to worry about me “running around all stabby-stabby” if we hadn’t needed to get our asses off of Yamatai to begin with.”

She shrugs at you. “Does it matter at this point?” You suppose not. “What matters now is that we figure this all out. Together.” Her words are eerily similar to what you told her during her sleepy confession-slash-apology and you wonder if she does remember it. You ponder bringing it up right now. As you’re weighing the pros and cons of doing so, she slaps her hands on her thighs and smiles weakly at you. “How about we go back a bit now, and pick a topic? You’ve been changing every subject that’s been brought up.” You raise an eyebrow. “Fine, fine.” She holds her hands up in surrender. “It wasn’t all you. Now, it’s fun time!” She over-enthusiastically claps her hands together but follows up with a tired sigh. “Pick your poison. Dreams, obsessive apologizing, being glued to the couch, or that whole panicking deal?” She’s been counting on her fingers, and taps at her thumbs as she adds, “Or something else you might have on your mind?”

None of the above, you want to say. You feel slightly ill and you’re sort of starting to regret your decision to talk.

* * *

   _i see the fear in your eyes, i feel the pain in your heart, how can something so well put together be so torn apart?_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *plz listen to Sadie Bolger's cover of this song, if you've been listening to the songs I've been pulling lyrics from. If you haven't please make this the one that you do.
> 
> I wasn't intending to split their talk over two chapters, but it got a little out of hand. I got as sidetracked as Lara and Sam did.
> 
> woah more dialogue in this chapter than in the last ~10,000 words. When I sat these two dummies down for their talk, I spent quite some time deciding how Lara was going to talk. As in, was she actually going to have dialogue or would she mostly talk by thinking to herself and then relaying it to Sam and have her communicate through body language often. As much as I liked the idea of staying in her head as much as possible, I decided that I'd rather give her a voice. How you think isn't necessarily how you end up talking, I suppose, and I think things are a bit more interesting seeing somebody not say quite what they're thinking or meaning to say. Woah I'm rambling way too much. High five if you're still reading.
> 
> Also, I don't really mind autocorrect too much, but when I'm trying to spell things wrong on purpose a lot of angry yelling becomes involved. Turning it off would be easier but I'm too lazy to click a few buttons.
> 
> Coming soon: The Cancellation


	5. The Cancellation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, what were you up to?” On her screen, only one browser window is open, and it’s showing a list of orders you’ve placed through Amazon.

In the end, you feel that the lesser of the multiple evils is the whole housebound situation. After all, you partially figured that one out on your own, when that Netflix robot emailed you. Sam's been patiently waiting for you to choose. She knows that this is tough for you. You manage to squeak out your answer but then you fall silent again.

Sam blinks at you a few times, and waits another minute for you to say something. When you don't, she starts instead. "Alright, so we've established that you don't seem to know that the front door exists anymore," A faint smile ghosts your lips, and you're grateful that she's trying to keep things light when she can. "And you genuinely seemed surprised when I pointed that out."

"Uh, Netflix, they emailed me yesterday." You feel your brain slap itself for making your mouth say such a ridiculous sentence. All you wanted was to explain that you at least had realized that you haven't been doing much with your time, but that was probably the least helpful thing you could possibly say.

Sam gives you this intense glare of incredulity and then her face meets her palm again. "Jesus Christ, Lara. Look, if we talk about this and deal with it I won't fucking cancel our account." She looks back up from her hand, and rolls her eyes at you. "I might lock you out from anything other than the kid's section though." She continues to stare at you, waiting for you to say something that's actually relevant.

It was relevant to you, and you feel like it's something you can actually explain for once. You jump at the opportunity to be able to do so. "No, see, when I read the email, it made me wonder what I've been doing with my time." Sam's head quirks, and she's listening closer to you now. "I mean, I watched that entire documentary series in the time since I've been home. I kind of started thinking about why I was wasting so much time."

Sam waits a moment before speaking, probably to make sure you don't have anything to add. Then she gently asks you a question, prodding for a little more information. "And did you come to any conclusions?"

Not exactly the most conclusive conclusion, but you  _had_  given yourself an answer that was good enough at the time. "I'm meant to be recovering right now, aren't I?"

That look is on Sam's face once again, even though you are fully aware that you're kinda messed up by this point. "Yeeaaah…" She drags out the word, and that makes you a little worried about what she's going to say next. "So the thing is, you can kind of do more than just stare at a screen all day while you finish up with that recovery business. I mean, you haven't even really attempted to do anything else."

You interject quickly, "I tried to! You didn't let me." The day after you had gotten out of the hospital, you wanted to go for a morning jog. You thought it might energize you after spending a bunch of time stuck in that single room at the hospital. You attributed your sluggish exhaustion to the lack of exercise over your stay.

After running her hand through her hair, Sam locks her hands behind her neck and fidgets a bit on the couch. She stretches and pokes you with her feet a couple times. Presumably to cover up the fact that the fidgeting was probably because she was, at least momentarily, slightly out of patience with you. You look at the clock. It didn't take long for her to get frustrated. You think that's probably not a good thing.

"Yeah, I didn't. Which may have been because you  _had literally been home for less than twenty-four hours._  Figured I'd try out that thing where we actually listen to professional medical advice. After all, wouldn't it be unfortunate if you had gone for a run and ended up, oh, I don't know,  _tearing your stitche_ s?" She kind of has a point. Scratch the kind of, she  _does_  have a point. As you start to tell her that, something that almost looks like shame flashes ever so briefly on her face and she cuts you off. "Shit. That was a kinda overboard. Shit. Shit. I'm sorry. I'll try to-" She pauses as the hands behind her head start rubbing at her neck. When she starts again her voice is much quieter. "I just don't want you to hurt yourself any more than you already have." You're unaware that your fingers are twitching at your side once again. "And the doctor did honestly say to limit your physical activity…" She's not meeting your eyes now and while it feels like she's apologizing for telling the truth, it also seems like she's suddenly anxious about something.

You bend forward in an attempt to catch her gaze. "Hey. It's fine. You don't have to sugarcoat everything." Her eyes flick up to yours. "I mean, that would be great if you could," You give her your best attempt at a smile, and it comes out lopsided. "But I don't think that's gonna work in this situation. We might have to get a little brutally honest with each other at times."

She sits up and clears her throat. "Yeah. Sometimes though, I get scared that. You. I-" You can't tell what she's trying to say to you, but the way that her words are fracturing worries you. You want to cut in, help her calm down about whatever it is that she can't seem to say. Before you get the chance, she gives up on it to give you a different answer. "I just feel bad when I get annoyed with you sometimes. You don't always, hrm. You're not really at your best right now, is what I mean, and you don't always deserve it."

You probably do, quite often. You don't say that though. Instead you say something that you think will reassure her. "I can handle it. And the same goes for me too, okay? If I get angry?" That look is on her face again, except she's somehow directed it at herself. She's definitely been keeping things from you. You're going to have to tease them out of her later. Right now though, you know you do deserve the stitch ripping comment. You scratch your chin with your shoulder and while you're doing that, you notice your hand at your side again. You've got to get that out and over with and since stitches have just been brought up, you take the opening before Sam can start talking again. "Since we're kind of on the topic right now, when I ripped my stitches the other day-"

She quickly sits up straight and talks over you. "Lara, I told you already, it's okay. It happens. You just should have called me."

You don't know why she leapt up and cut you off so brusquely, but you need to say it. "I know, it's just," You freeze for a moment. Maybe you don't need to say it. "What happened was," No, you'll just get it over with, quick, like ripping off a bandaid. Or pulling out a stitch. "It  _was_  my fault. I didn't notice at the time but I r-" You stop. You just can't say it, so you stuff the words "ripped them out myself" back down your throat and force some others out instead. "-eally should be more careful when I, um, stretch after I've been sitting on the couch for awhile."

"Okay…" Her voice is a little off and it looks like she expected you to say something else. What it was that she had expected, you don't know. She clears her throat, and her voice is back to normal. "Anyway, yeah, you did try to go out that morning. I practically had to hold you back. But you haven't tried at all since then, and I'm just kinda wondering why."

Your brow creases. She's been hovering all over you. "But wouldn't you have stopped me again?"

"So those doctor's orders, then," Her hands have fallen from her neck, and her fingers tap the sofa. "You remember them? Or, uh, did you maybe want me to refresh you?" You feel you've done something wrong. You shrug at her and she continues. "Now the thing is, it's that you needed to rest up pretty good for a few days. And then after that, you could, y'know, do some light exercise. And jogging isn't really too strenuous, so I was a little surprised when you didn't try again. At all. It isn't just the jogging, either. You haven't, well, you haven't really tried at anything at all. You really haven't done much. Much of anything."

It is strange that you gave up so easily after only one attempt, you think. But you're so tired. You don't feel you have the energy right now. "I've just been so exhausted, Sam. I decided I should take the down time like you suggested, to get some recovery."

"Uh-huh." She reaches up and starts rubbing at the back of her neck again and looks away once more. You assume she's trying to figure out her wording. When she looks back, she's frowning slightly. "Yeah, okay. About that. Remember like, five minutes ago? When we were talking about you trying to get me to let you go for your jog?" She exhales loudly. "Wow, I'm feeling pretty patronizing right now. Fuck. It's just that… Lara, you do remember the reason you wanted to go running, right?"

Your brain connects the dots, and it's your turn to frown as you think about the contradiction you just made. Why  _did_  you give up after only one day? You're pretty damn stubborn, so why didn't you keep trying until Sam let you? "Now I do. That  _is_  strange, isn't it?" There had to be some other reason, hadn't there? Why  _did_  you stop?

Sam watches the confusion on your face for a moment, then speaks up. "Right? Strange. Okay, yeah, so since we've agreed on that, I've got a few other things that sorta go with that. Just a few. If you're still good?"

You'd still like to run from the conversation, but at the same time, you're confused by yourself and you convince yourself that you actually do want to hear what else Sam has to say. "Yeah. We can keep going a bit longer." You're afraid to ask, but you do it anyway. "So what else is there?" Probably a metric shit-ton, but whatever it is that Sam's noticed is probably the most prominent.

"Good!" She smiles at you, then sobers immediately. "Uh, well. I mean, not good that we have this stuff to talk about. But the fact that we are talking. That you still wanna keep talking, y'know? That's good. Talking is good. You need to talk."

She's slightly tripping over words now, more so than before. You aren't sure why that is, but you feel it best to reassure her again. "I get it Sam, it's fine." The thing is, you already know that you're going to have to convince her that talking is good when it comes around to her turn later.

She relaxes, the slightest amount, and stretches her legs out into your lap. "Okay. That's also good. Look at all the good happening. Good everywhere."

That whole outburst was more than a little weird. She's gone quiet for the moment and one of her feet starts tapping in the air. She's acting almost nervously now. You grab the foot that's tapping and start massaging it, after you gesture for her to continue.

She looks down her body to where her foot is trapped in your hands. "Oh. Thanks." You shrug at her again, to imply that it isn't a big deal. "I don't really want to bring up that… unique documentary show you've been watching but I kind of have a few things about it."

You chuckle at her description, and shake your head. She's even trying to be delicate about your choice of television viewing. "You can call it rubbish, Sam. It's atrociously done, laughably inaccurate." You wonder if she's going to tell you that she's working on getting rid of episode forty-six, and you want to tell her that it's okay that it somehow exists, but that might lead back to the conversation you still don't know if she remembers having.

She still looks more than a little nervous about whatever it is she's going to say, and her hands are back to tugging at the back of her neck. "Well, see, that's kind of the thing. Like, I have no idea what a lot of them are even supposed to be about, but I've caught bits and pieces and… it's kinda a terrible show."

You have absolutely no idea where this is going. She admits to watching crap shows all the time, so why is it weird that you've been watching one? Plus, you literally just told her that it  _is_  a terrible show. "I don't think I'm following." When you say that, she looks like she'd rather not explain to you.

"Yes. Okay." Her foot bounces in your hands, and you have to get a tighter grip on it to keep rubbing it. "When have you ever watched anything that terrible before? Don't get me wrong here, you've always liked your documentaries." She pauses, and despite her nervous behaviour, the next sentence comes out theatrically dramatic. "For whatever reason that may be." She immediately returns to painfully clipped sentences. "But before the, uh, the whole Yamatai thing, whenever I couldn't get the remote away from you, you would point out every tiny inaccuracy that was presented."

You're still confused. "So?"

"Well, it's just, your taste has changed drastically? Or that, uh, maybe you're just being really apathetic about just how bad these shows have been?" You think that her questions are meant to be statements.

You honestly don't understand why she seems to be so nervous about this. "I suppose they're just a bit of fun, Sam. I get to laugh at them, and it's some mindless entertainment."

"Mindless. Yes." Her hands are now linked together behind her neck. "You never really were into much of the mindless stuff before. You were always telling me that there's so much to learn. About…things. A lot of things? Things that weren't, like, Donald Trump yelling at people." You're quite sure about what you're going to respond with, but she doesn't give you the chance to say anything. "A little more on the mindless thing. Just a tad." You nod, you're lost and oddly, you want to see where she's going with this. "Alright. Thanks. So, all the Netflix lately. Like,  _all_  the Netflix. All, like, a huge portion of your time."

You already told her that you realized you were spending a lot of time in front of the TV. "I think I mentioned that earlier, right?"

"Yuh-huh. Exactly." You watch as she tries her best to construct full sentences again. "So, we agree that yeah, you spend a lot of time with the TV. Good. That's… good." You're not sure why she seems relieved about that. "I've noticed that you've been spending less time, obviously, with your other stuff. Like your books. And your maps. And your languages that I can't read. Basically all your nerd stuff."

She does have a point, but every time you think about looking at any of your things you remember how distracted you are when you try to sit down with them. "I've been having a bit of trouble concentrating. I think it's because I've been so tired."

She bites the inside of her cheek. "Yeah, there was that day I came home and you kind of, I don't know if you remember, but you kind of had a little rant about it at me?"

You do. You felt bad afterwards, it wasn't her fault that you were distracted. "Right. I'm sor-"

"No! Stop. Stop with the sorries. I know that isn't what we're talking about right now, but please, stop apologizing." She caught you off-guard with her loud interruption again, and you momentarily drop her foot, which is bouncing more rapidly now. You still don't really understand why she seems so nervous. You should be the one who's nervous, shouldn't you? And even though you still would rather not deal with whatever issue it is that she's trying to lead up to, this talk isn't really as bad as you though it might be. You pick her other foot up as she starts speaking again.

"Alright, where was I? Oh. Um. Okay, so it's been like, maybe a week since that happened?" Probably. You nod. "And, well, maybe I've just not been around to see, but have you tried again at all? Like, even once, maybe?"

You're still absentmindedly massaging her foot as you think. You don't think you have. "Not really. I haven't felt up to it, I guess." You idly wonder why that is.

Sam falls quiet for awhile, and looks like she's trying to mentally talk herself into saying whatever it is she has to say. You wait. She rubs at the back of her neck again, until she speak up. "So. Would you maybe… is there a chance that maybe you've possibly lost interest in, uh," Her eyes have been darting around the room, and it looks like she's making a big effort to focus them on yours. "Would you say that you've lost some interest in, well, your stuff? I mean, not like you don't care at all anymore, just that… you don't…" She draws in a deep breath and her next sentence is long and spoken quickly. "I mean, you haven't really touched your books at all and it's kinda weird that you aren't all over me trying to convince me to let you exercise or whatever and you don't even really watch the same kind of TV you used to and I mean yeah they're documentaries but…" She doesn't finish her thought, and just lets it trail off.

And now you abruptly see where she's been going with this and why she's been acting so nervous for the last half of this conversation. You don't respond. You don't really like where it is that she's going.

By the expression on her face, she doesn't seem to like where she's going either. "You've told me how tired you are, and I guess that's a reason to not exercise, but you had the opposite reason to try and convince me for one day. And you haven't brought it up since. You've actually been using the tired thing as an excuse? It's kinda like, you don't even seem to care about it? Like, you might be kind of apathetic? Apathetic about a few things? Not interested in others. Things that you used to be interested in, and kind of enthusiastic about?" You would like for her to stop talking now. "'Cause I've been reading a bit, not much really, but I noticed that all of those things kind of go together sometimes?" Everything's a question, she's trying to tread lightly. It's not really working. "So what I read is that when a lot of those things go together it sometimes means that maybe-" Something suddenly occurs to you, and you think you can stop her before she says  _it_ , if you can just get the words out fast enough.

"You haven't touched your camera since we've been home." She's stopped mid-sentence. You were right. "I don't know if I've even seen you look at any of the footage that I got on Yamatai, let alone try to record anything."

She's staring at you, but you're not sure if she's seeing you at the moment. "I've been busy," is her simple reply.

Not good enough for you, not right now. "Sam, you used to stay up until who knows how late editing footage and messing with your camera. You never had a problem fitting it in before." She's pulled her feet back and her legs are crossed in front of her now. "I haven't had a camera up in my face other than when I first gave it back to you." Her face is blank. "If I'm wrong, you can tell me." As you finish, you wish you could rewind and erase the smugness from your voice. You wish you could take back everything you just said.

Slowly, she turns to read the clock. "Y'know, we've been talking for quite awhile now." Does she seriously think that you're going to buy that? "Maybe we should take a break, come back, maybe talk about one of the other topics. You know, cover as much ground as possible? Yup, feels like break time." Before you can stop her, she's off the couch and is heading towards your bedroom.

You don't want to force her to talk, after all, she waited for you. But that cat is out of the bag now. "Sam, wait." She doesn't. You shouldn't have attacked her like that. But you did. You really are an idiot. You try shouting after her one more time. "Sam, please!" She, of course, doesn't respond and you mumble to yourself as your head drops to your hands. "Shit. _Shit, shit, shit!_ "

You stay on the sofa for a few more minutes. Eventually you will yourself to get up and go find a way to apologize to her without using the word "sorry". When you walk into the room, her back is facing you and she's tapping keys on her laptop. Even though it's your bedroom just as much as it is hers, you knock on the doorframe before entering. "Sam, listen. I shouldn't have said what I said. At least not the way I did. It's fine if you don't want to go back over everything right away, but we probably shouldn't just drop it all completely. We were-  _you_  were getting somewhere." You don't know if she's ignoring you, or just flat out not listening. "Hey. Sam. It's something that I don't want to think about. Clearly. I get it if you don't want to either, but you were literally a sentence away from the root of that whole conversation, and I ruined it all. I'm not going to say that I'm, uh, feeling the way that you, well, you rather firmly told me not to express? But I honestly feel bad about what I did. What I said." Still nothing, though her hands have dropped from the computer to hang limply at her sides. You walk closer, so you're standing directly behind her. "Hey." You put a hand on her shoulder. She's slumped slightly in the chair, and now that you're close enough, you can see that her eyes are closed. The hand on her shoulder is trembling, but you aren't the one who's shaking. "We're gonna figure everything out." You decide to repeat her words to her, although they're actually kind of your own. "Together. Remember?" Her head falls and is cradled by her hands as she props her elbows on the desk, and you try to remember how she phrased it earlier. "It was supposed to be a 50/50 conversation, right? I preemptively jumped at your 50, and aggressively. I didn't mean to, but I panicked, and I did. But Sam, just because I was an ass about it, that doesn't mean I wasn't right. It also doesn't mean that you weren't right either." She finally responds, if only in the form of a deep sigh. It's not really the ideal response, but it's something, so you'll take it. You're pretty sure she's done for the day.

You decide to try and make the atmosphere a little less awkward, try and make everything feel lighter, more normal again. Doing your best to ignore everything that just happened, you remove your hand from her shoulder and replace it with your chin, so you can see what was doing. "So, what were you up to?" On her screen, only one browser window is open, and it's showing a list of orders you've placed through Amazon.

She lifts her head, straightens in her seat and taps her finger on the screen, pointing to the newest order. "I just cancelled the couch you ordered." The waver in her voice didn't even last the entirety of the sentence, and you can't tell the tone that it twisted into.

She's stress-shopping and has decided to spend some time browsing for another, you assume. If you settle down and virtually window-shop with her, maybe the tension in the room will ease. So you pull a chair under you and sit down, turning your head to fit into her shoulder better. She pulls her shoulder away, you fall forward a bit, and she turns to look at you. Her eyes are shimmering with the tears that she's been holding back, yet her voice maintains what you now recognize as a smug, almost self-righteous tone as she informs you, "We're  _going out_  furniture shopping tomorrow."

* * *

_i've been watching all your colours fade, to blue_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So first of all, I was planning to do a "The Conversation Redux" and smush together the conversation parts from this chapter and previous one, but from Sam's POV instead. But I'm not sure if that would be too filler-ish or if it would be of any interest. If it is of interest, and not too filler-ish, I can most certainly write it, and if preferable, I could throw it up as a one-shot instead of being a chapter of this story. I just think it would be interesting to get inside Sam's head for a bit, and this seems like a good place to do so.
> 
> You'll notice that Lara's going to have more of an outside voice from now on, rather than staying in her head. For a few reasons, but if I start typing I won't stop, so you can interpret it however you want.
> 
> Anyway, I know that this is going pretty slow, and that's partially because I get carried away sometimes. But also partially because (in my experience) some mental illnesses make time go slower. You're reading the story from Lara's head, and she's got shit to think about, and too much time to do so. So yeah, three days over five chapters (although I did do the flashback). Sorry if the story feels too slow to you, but it wouldn't feel right to me if I was flying through things. Gotta suffer with the characters, right? And I guess I can't have these dorks have revelations if I don't give them the back and forth dialogue for them to realize things from.
> 
> Next up: The Zebra Abyss


	6. The Zebra Abyss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Wanna see if that one’s any good?” She’s jabbing her thumb over her shoulder at a seafoam green corduroy sofa, and you think you know now how you ended up in Larry’s Discount Goods.

“Wow, Sam. _Wow_.” You’re trying to keep your voice down, but you’re failing. “Great. Really great, Sam. _How. Fucking. Mature._ ” You can feel the anger bubbling in your chest, you can feel it trying to escape and you decide it would be best for the both of you if you got out of the room as soon as possible. In your haste, you knock your chair over, and as you leave you resist the urge to slam the door on her. You hear a sniffle, followed by a loud obscenity as well as one expertly smothered sob. Her voice cracks the second time she calls out your name. You don’t really care right now. You’re vaguely aware of the sound of the chair you had tipped being kicked further across the room, and Sam continuing to swear at herself. You really do not care. You do have a bit of a problem, though. Normally you’d shut yourself in your study, but the second last thing you want to be around right now is your overwhelming library. After a few minutes of deliberation, you settle for laying down on the sofa.

You have absolutely no idea how long you’ve been staring at the ceiling when you finally start to calm down. It’s getting dark outside though, and while your stitches are still intact, your side hurts from where you’ve been tugging and scratching at them. You’re still upset, but with a clearer head, you feel that what happened was at least partially your fault. You lashed out, and Sam lashed back. You both acted like children throwing temper tantrums, and frankly, you’re a little embarrassed. You want to go to Sam but the last remains of your anger are holding you back, along with some warped sense of dignity.

In the end, you don’t have to get up. It’s not much longer before you hear soft steps approaching you. “Lara?” You throw your hand up, so she can see it over the back of the sofa. “Oh, thank God, you’re-“ You really wish she would stop cutting herself off every time that she’s about to tell you that you’re _something_ , but you try not to think about it as you flail your hand around in an attempt to call her over. It works, and you hear her footsteps get closer.

She’s a bit of a mess. She’s obviously been crying. You didn’t hear her, but it doesn’t look like it was soft, delicate crying, either. “C’mere.” The sofa isn’t really large enough for both of you, but she joins you anyway and ends up partially beside you, partially on top of you. You wrap an arm around her after she buries her face in the crook of your neck.

Your shoulder muffles her voice. “You’re here.” A rather astute observation on her part.

“Yeah, I’m… where else would I be?” You run a hand through her hair. “Well, maybe in the study. Or I could have been in the bathroom, I suppose.”

“No, you’re _here_.”

She can’t see your brow crease in confusion, so after a moment’s silence you tell her, “I am. I’m right here, yeah?” This prompts a hiccup, and you can feel her nod. You aren’t sure what this is about, but you think that maybe you’ve said the right thing. Even though you aren’t one hundred percent positive that you did, you ignore it for the moment and move on. You need to say a few other things, even though they might not be the most pleasant. “Sam, what you did, that wasn’t alright.” You feel her stiffen and she goes completely still. “Hey. Relax.” You stroke her hair again, and even though it’s futile, you try to make eye contact. “Sam, what I did wasn’t okay either. We can’t just hurt each other to avoid getting hurt ourselves. Even if it’s an unintentional reaction.” That must have been something she needed to hear, because you feel her settle down slightly. “Still,” you make yourself tell her before you change your mind, “We’ll go out tomorrow.”

She immediately gets upset again. “No. No no no Lara you don’t have to we don’t have we can reorder it you don’t have to got out just because I’m a fucking asshole you don’t have to Lara I’m sorry I am I really am I’m such a fucking-“

You shush her. “You were mad at me, because _I_ was being an asshole first. You _might_ have overreacted slightly.” She huffs. “Really Sam, it’s okay. We just need to try not to freak out on each other next time.”

“You aren’t mad at me?” The slight crack in her voice is giving her away again, and phantom hand decides it’s a good time to show up and reach into your chest once more.

“I was. I still am, though not nearly as much.” Her faces presses closer against you. “But I forgive you.” No response. “You heard me, right? I forgive you.” A stifled whimper escapes her. “And we’ll go buy some kind of excessively elaborate sofa tomorrow. I’ll try to… I can do it. We can do it.”

“‘Kay.” She shifts into a slightly more comfortable position.

You don’t want to bring it up, but you force yourself to. “One last thing, okay? You’re probably right, you know.” Silence again. “I just want you to know that. Just because I lost it on you doesn’t mean I don’t agree. It just means that… I don’t know. That I’m scared, I guess.” More silence. “But I just want to ask you; I was right too, wasn’t I?”

After even more silence, she makes a noise that you consider to be an agreement. “Sam, you don’t have to pretend with me. Not anymore, at least. Please?”

That breaks the dam and she’s done with holding it in now. You find your positions have reversed as she’s the one breaking down for once. You don’t know exactly what to do, other than lay there and hold her as she sobs into you. It comes out strangled, between whimpers, but you hear her say it one more time. “You’re here.”

You still don’t understand so you just keep your arms wrapped tight around her until her crying comes to end. Listening to her crushed you, the way she was crying, and you have no idea how long she's been holding herself together, though it was most likely from the start. Holding herself together for your benefit, probably. You’re angry at yourself now, for doing this to her. You don’t say anything though, now is not the time. The way she was crying though, it was very clear that it was about more than what _just_ happened. So, although she never actually said anything out loud, she has at least _somewhat_ admitted that she isn’t as okay as she’s been acting. But she’s not going to want to talk about anything right now, and you do your best to not think about it, instead trying to focus solely on her in this moment. She doesn’t say or do much of anything at all, and you feel it best to simply mimic her. Again, you lose track of time, and the only reason you eventually roll Sam away from you is to allow you to get up to go to bed.

When the two of you finally do make it to bed, you don’t need Sam to prompt you to take any painkillers. She does seem concerned that you’re still apparently in enough pain that you need them, but she doesn’t speak up. You know you’re treading on dangerous water, but you don’t care at the moment. All that’s important to you right now is that you have a peaceful sleep. Sam takes longer than usual to settle down but once she’s finally comfortable, pressed tight against your back with her arm clinging you tighter than normal, you close your eyes. And you fall into a blissfully quiet sleep.

When morning rolls around, Sam is back to being her perky self (or at least seems to be), informing you that she’s decided that you’re going to make a day out of this shopping trip, and she’s forbidden you from cooking breakfast. Not that she’s going to do it either. You were in the bathroom, brushing your teeth when she suddenly appeared behind you and made the announcement. “Get your butt moving, sweetie, and buckle up,” You had a strange feeling of role reversal, as previously, you were almost always the one ready and dressed and trying to hurry Sam up. “We’re going for pancakes!”

You are now currently buckled up, and you’re feeling good about that as Sam weaves through traffic, trying to find a place to flip around after missing the turn into her chosen diner. You wish she’d keep going and stop at, well, almost anywhere else. The pancakes at that place are almost as bad as Sam’s volcanic toast. But if you have to eat them, it’s best to just get it over with, so you urge her to stay in one lane while pointing desperately at a gas station with a large enough parking lot for her to turn around in. The finger you’re using to point trails behind you and you watch helplessly out the window as she drives past. She tells you that you didn’t point it out quick enough. You contemplate throwing yourself out of the car. You’ve survived a hell of a lot worse.

Eventually, Sam spots a different diner, one advertising “a cherry pie that’ll kill you”, and you hear a horn honk as she takes a _sharp_ turn to pull into it’s parking lot, original food venue apparently forgotten. Before you get out of the car, she looks over at you and asks you one more time, “Are you absolutely sure?” It’s vague, but you know she’s asking if you’re sure that you want to try this. You actually aren’t sure if you are, but the only way to find out is to try, and you nod as you look out the window.

The place is nearly empty when you walk in, and a wave of relief washes over you. You happily find out that the food is also drastically better than what you would have forced down had Sam not missed her turn. The two of you keep up the best banter possible, given the anxiety looming over you. It actually goes alright, the lack of customers helps you relax enough to keep a conversation going. While you pay, you realize that neither of you actually tried the pie. Before you leave, Sam can’t stop herself from thanking the waitress for making a damn fine cup of coffee. They share a laugh and you groan at her as you walk out the door.

After a relatively short drive, Sam parks the car in the lot of the first furniture store that catches her eye. You open your door to get out of the vehicle, but find you can only push it so far before you’d bash the van that’s in the stall beside you. Luckily, Sam didn’t manage to park very straight and the car swings away from the van in your favour, and you manage to squeeze out. Maybe you can convince her that driving is a form of exercise that you are fully able to participate in now.

Despite the fact that it’s an unusually warm, bright day, you’ve chosen to wear your oversized, and now stylishly bleached hoodie. For some reason, something about it makes you feel more comfortable about being outside of the house. When you first pulled it on, you assumed that Sam would march you right back into the bedroom and put you into something that was at least a little cleaner. She did raise an eyebrow at you, and you aren’t sure if you might have reacted in some way that she noticed, because she followed up by shrugging at you. She smiled like she was proud of something (what that might be, you have no idea), and gestured for you to go first.

That had eased the slightest amount of the fear that had settled in your stomach, and although Sam’s driving was frustrating and slightly frightening in a different manner, the familiarity of it paired with the arguing that resulted from it helped settle you further. At the diner, your shoulders had relaxed for the first time. But now, in front of the furniture store in the middle of a long row of busy shops, you can’t take a deep breath anymore. Sam stops walking to the store when she realizes you haven’t been following. She comes back to you and takes hold of one of your hands. “You trust me, right?”

You’d trust her with your life. Still, you find yourself pulling your hand away to tug your hood up and over your head. Like the rest of the sweater, it’s far too large for you and it hangs almost low enough to obscure your vision. You don’t understand why it makes you feel slightly better, but it does and you reach back down to reclaim Sam’s hand.

She has to peek forward to see past your hood to your face. She bumps lightly against your shoulder. “I’ve got you, okay?”

Your throat is dry and you swallow in an attempt to fix that. You trust her. You trust her. She’ll keep you safe. You trust her. You trust her and you take the first step forward, lightly tugging her along with you. By the time you reach the building, you’re hyper aware of every person within a reasonable radius of you. You hear music coming from inside the store and through the tinted glass you see all the other people who’ve decided to shop today. Once again you’re overwhelmed, and you stop short of opening the door. Sam catches herself and, not nearly as suddenly as you, also stops walking. Everybody around you must think you’re a complete head case, the way you keep stopping and standing still and staring vacantly ahead of you. Now you’re anxious _and_ self conscious. Sam puts an arm around your shoulder and pulls you to the side, so a family can pass by you and enter the store. You don’t know if you can go in there, but at the same time, standing out in the open is almost worse. The sidewalk is crowded, and even though you’ve stood to the side, people occasionally bump into you. It takes all your control to not react in any way other than accepting the apologies thrown at you as the offenders pass by. It’s enough of a reflex that you can still do it as you zone out and the scenery becomes blurry. People still bump into you, and all they are are blurs, but your breathing is speeding up at the same rate that your control is diminishing.

At some point Sam must have stepped in front of you, because after you blink a few times in an attempt to make everything seem less blurry, you find yourself face to face with her. She’s holding your hand and you realize she’s pulling it away from your hip, where it had been desperately searching for your axe. “Lara, are you listening? Are you, uh, are you here?” You pull your hand out of hers as soon as you realize what’s happening and you stare at it, as if it’ll explain itself to you. “Lara?”

You briefly close your eyes, and attempt a deep breath. You give up on getting any answers from your hand, and use it to rub at your forehead instead. “Yeah, I’m- I am.” You aren’t sure how long you were… gone. It couldn’t have been too terribly long, if it had been, Sam would probably be a lot less composed.

“Okay. Keep listening. I know this is tough. I had a rough time handling being in crowds the first few times I went out by myself.” Your stomach twists, because it’s your fault that she had to go out to begin with, inevitably to places where she would be completely surrounded by strangers, strangers who were probably asking questions and invading privacy. And it’s even more your fault that she had to go alone. Although your stomach is now twisted, Sam’s voice is calming you enough that you start to breathe regularly again. “I’m not going to lie to you right now. All this,” she gestures around her, “is still hard to deal with. But you aren’t going to magically be able to assimilate if you stay inside all day, every day. I’m a little ahead of you, but we can still work on this together.” She’s just verbally admitted to you that she’s anxious too, which is technically more than you got out of her yesterday. That admission is what gives you the courage to step forward into the store. If she can step forward enough to tell you, out loud, even just the smallest hint that she’s not as okay as she’s pretending to be, then you can damn well step forward into the crowd and pick out a sofa with her. Probably.

You did step into the crowd, and nervously walked around the store for what felt like an eternity. You never ended up picking out a sofa. Not that you didn’t like any of them, there were a variety of good choices. Sam, on the other hand, didn’t care for any of them and insisted on keeping the search going. You agree, because you don’t know what else you can say, and then fail at snatching the car keys from her hand. While waiting for traffic to slow enough to allow her to turn out of the parking lot, you look over at her and watch her fingers rapidly tap against the steering wheel. They’re taping at almost the same speed that she’s bouncing her free leg, and you suspect the only reason that you aren’t driving home with a receipt and delivery slip is because she wants to keep you out for as long as you can handle. You appreciate that (you think), but you also worry about how _she’s_ feeling. She’s been out of the house more than you, that much is obvious, but you don’t know how much of that time was spent in a large crowd. But you know that if you ask her, she’d tell you that she’s absolutely fine, so you don’t bother. While you wonder how you never noticed her stress about leaving the house before, your right hand scratches and taps at your side.

Sam exits the car a moment before you do, as you’re busy pulling at your hood, securing it over you head. The weather really is quite warm and you’d rather be wearing something lighter, but you’ve figured out that the hoodie is barrier. The smallest barrier you could put up, probably, but a barrier nonetheless. Sam must have figured that out far earlier, and you assume that’s the reason she didn’t redress you. You want to thank her, but you’re standing in an unfortunately dingy underground lot, and it doesn’t seem the time or place to bring it up.

As well as that, you’re currently occupied with psyching yourself up to wander through another shop. Larry’s Discount Goods doesn’t seem to be the most intimidating place, but you haven’t had a chance to look in, thanks to your parking situation. When Sam had seen the sign that Larry carried discounted furniture, she told you that it was to be the next stop. You’ve no idea why. You don’t think Sam has ever set foot in a store that carries the word “discount” in its name.

The store is just as unfortunately dingy as the parking lot was, and, possibly because of that fact, is quite empty. It also carries some of the most hideous items you’ve ever laid eyes on. You’re absorbed in staring at an atrocious rainbow coloured zebra print footstool, and you jump when Sam speaks. “Wanna see if that one’s any good?” She’s jabbing her thumb over her shoulder at a seafoam green corduroy sofa, and you think you know now how you ended up in Larry’s Discount Goods.

“Sure,” you agree, looking back to the footstool. “Staring at this is almost like staring into some twisted abyss. But I can’t seem to look away.”

She laughs, a genuine laugh, and makes a show of forcing you away from the zebra abyss. As she pushes you towards the godawful corduroy, you decide that it’s almost as bad. “I think this might be stuck only one circle of furniture hell up from that footstool.”

“Just close your eyes if you can’t appreciate this aesthetic. We’re looking for comfort.” You think that she’s being sincere about the comfort bit, but you aren’t completely positive that she’s talking about sofas anymore.

Larry doesn’t seem much bothered by the fact that the two of you have been sitting far long than needed to test a sofa. So you stay on the corduroy, Sam leaning against you while your right hand traces patterns in the offensive material. Other than the drama spewing from the soap opera that Larry’s invested in, the store is pretty quiet. The pair of you are mostly quiet too. After you brush away the swirly pattern you created on the cushion beside you, you shift so you’re leaning back against Sam as much as she’s leaning on you. “Hey, Sam?” She pokes you with her elbow. “Thank you.”

“Hm?” She’s playing with you. She knows exactly what you mean.

“For stopping here.” She knew everything here would be rubbish, and she knew that it’d be fairly vacant because of that. “To let me take a break. For not pushing me too hard.”

She looks at you with a perplexed expression that is noticeably forced. “Lara Croft, I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about.” If that answer wasn’t enough to give her away, the apology you see in her eyes certainly is. You knew you needed to be pushed out of the house, as did she. But you both also know that she shouldn’t have shoved you out the way she did, just to spite you for your overly hostile outburst.

You don’t feel the need to respond, and the sounds of Larry’s show fade away as you sit in completely comfortable silence for possibly the first time since Yamatai. It’s only when you make that observation that you recognize the amount of silence the two of you have shared lately. If you had some way of keeping track, you’re sure that you’d find that you’ve talked more in the past few days than the past few weeks.

Sam breaks the silence about ten minutes later, when she pulls you up off the couch. “Y’know, nothing in here is catching my eye. Let’s go somewhere else?”

You’re not going to point out that she barely looked through a quarter of the merchandise. She might actually make you browse around some more if you do mention it. “I don’t know,” You try to keep the corner of your mouth from twitching up. “I think that zebra print is calling to me.” Sam doesn’t restrain her smirk, and lightly flicks you in the middle of your forehead before turning to leave the store.

Sam slows the car as she turns into the parking lot of your next stop, a rather busy big name chain store. Stepping out of the car, and into the bright sun, you think that you preferred the dinginess of Larry’s. You’re tugging at your hood again when you feel Sam’s hand over your own. Her grip is just tight enough to allow her to bring your hand back down to your side. She reaches into the hood to brush some hair from your face, and nods reassuringly at you. Your gaze scans the parking lot, trying to get an idea of the number of people surrounding you and observing their grouping. When you try to take a deep breath, it sticks in your throat and ruins your stoicism, but Sam stops to reassure you again. “You can do this.” You aren’t sure that you agree with her, but you nod back anyway.

Five minutes and one aisle after reaching the furniture section, Sam is, not at all delicately, dropping herself onto a sofa that in your opinion, is a completely dreadful shade of something resembling mauve. You hiss at her. _“Sam!”_ She looks at you, not recognizing, or perhaps not caring, that throwing yourself at the sample furniture is really not so acceptable, even if that’s how she’d approach it at home. You glance around, sure that you’ve attracted unwanted attention. Nobody seems to even be looking your way, but you can still feel eyes watching you.

Ignoring your admonishment, she pats the cushion beside her. “How do you feel about leather?” You roll your shoulders in an attempt to loosen them, and you’re quite sure that you’d buy a sofa made of barbed wire if it meant you could leave right now. Sam notices your obvious discomfort, and pats the cushion again. “Sit?” You do, although the amount of movement and sound surrounding you prevents you from even coming close to the level of relaxation you felt at Larry’s. Sam notices that you’re sitting stiff as a board and begins a steady monologue, if only because you can’t seem to speak back. “Well, okay, let me rephrase that. How do you feel about pleather? I’m pretty sure this isn’t actually leather. This tag here shows a bunch of colours, which is nice, because I am not feeling this purpley crap at all. I’m not sure if it’s quite squishy enough though, feel how pointy these arms are.” While she’s poking at the arm of the sofa, she looks over to see you still sitting stiffly. You’ve at least willed yourself to rest your hand on the supposedly unsuitable arm of the sofa, though it’s not doing much other than resting there. It’s your eyes that are doing all the work, flicking back and forth to follow other shoppers. She looks back to the tags. “Says here that it’s stuffed with 100% recycled…” Without dropping the tag, she looks back to you. “Uh, recycled stuffing stuff. I guess that’s environmentally friendly but it doesn’t actually say what the stuff _is_ and,” Your hand has moved from the armrest to your stomach. “Lara?”

You startle slightly at your name and when you do, your hand hits your side just hard enough for you to notice, and you immediately pull it back to the armrest. You don’t miss how Sam’s eyes dart from your hand to your eyes as you refocus your vision on her. You try not to consider if she’s interpreted anything, and instead work on finding at least one syllable to respond with. “Yuh?” A single syllable non-word is better than absolutely nothing, you hope. Sam frowns. Maybe it wasn’t.

“Next aisle?” She suggests as she stands up and holds her hand out to help you do the same. You desperately, and tightly, grasp her hand, and you don’t let go even after standing up. Sam doesn’t start towards the next aisle immediately, and it looks like she’s trying to make a decision. It’s not long before she smiles at you and juts her head towards the second aisle. Her smile does a pretty good job of hiding her concern, you judge.

You’ve travelled two more aisles before Sam stops to properly evaluate another sofa. “What about this?” It’s a much more reasonable colour this time, and not leather. Or pleather. She seems a little more serious now. You shrug, and try your hardest to focus on her. You’re failing, and Sam watches as your eyes dash around while you almost compulsively attempt to keep tabs on everybody around you. Your hand is pre-emptively twitching against your thigh, where a gun should be holstered. “Actually, y’know what? I have to pee. Help me find the toilets?” Still looking at everybody but her, you absently nod in agreement. The gun is a lost cause and honestly rather unnecessary, you try to tell yourself, but you _want_ it just the same. You give up on the gun and instead watch for exit routes as Sam weaves her way to the washroom.

You’re starting to feel a headache coming on as Sam pushes the restroom door open, and then drags you into a stall with her. There’s only a few other occupants, which is much less overwhelming, although there are far less ways to leave. “Lara.” She pushes your hood down, which makes you inhale sharply. You want that shielding back, however small it is. “Lara, look at me.” You do, even if your eyes are slightly glazed. “You’re okay. I know it’s really busy in here, but everybody out there is just looking to shop. They aren’t going to… you don’t need to be watching constantly. Or, hrm, you don’t need,” She lifts her hand and pretends to shoot a gun. “You don’t have to- they’re all just shopping.” You know that, rationally, but your brain doesn’t seem to want you to be rational right now. “We started out early enough to beat the crowds, but now… fuck, I wasn’t thinking. Do you want to leave?” You do. You don’t. You really really do. But you don’t. You’d love to. But not really.

“I…” You’re not sure how to answer. You decide not to answer her question, but to instead tell her the one thing you do know. “I don’t want to disappoint you.”

“God, Lara, you aren’t-“ She once again doesn’t finish telling you what you aren’t, which would worry you more if you weren’t so occupied with counting the footsteps that follow every time the washroom door opens. “C’mon, let’s get out of here.” She pulls your hood back over your head and gives it a little tug. “What kinda food should we pick up on the way home?”

When you enter your flat, you walk past Sam and straight into the kitchen, depositing the greasy bag of imitation Mexican food on the counter. You proceed to stand still, staring down at your feet, your hand pulling at the material of your hoodie that’s covering your wound. Things had been going kind of okay, but then you completely checked out and ruined the day. You hear Sam enter the room, but you don’t bother looking up at her. You’ve not spoken since Sam led you to the car, despite her best efforts to get you to say something, anything. You can only think of one thing to say, and at this point, you don’t care if she yells at you. “I’m sorry.”

Sam doesn’t respond right away, and a minute later you’re staring at two pairs of feet instead of just one. “Lara, sweetie,” she gently tilts your chin up so that she can see your eyes. You don’t resist, but you don’t meet her gaze either. “Why are you sorry?”

You shift your weight to one foot. Then to the other. “I couldn’t do it.”

“Sure you could. You _were_ doing it. But you are aware that you can’t do it all at once, right? You were great. I am _not_ disappointed in you.” She steps sideways, barely, just enough to try to meet your eyes. She would have, if you hadn’t averted them immediately.

“We didn’t buy a new sofa.” You try to look back down, but her fingers are still under your chin.

“So what? We’re making a fashion statement.” You can hear a smile in her voice, but you don’t understand why. “Lara, please look at me.” It’s almost painful to do so, but you force yourself. “You have nothing to apologize for. That was literally your first go. You remember the day after I slept on the sofa? How I was late coming home?” You do. You remember how worried you were. “Do you know why I was late? I didn’t tell you because, well, because we weren’t telling each other anything at that point. But I was late because I had to lock myself in a bathroom, there were _so_ many people everywhere, and I was so messed up from talking about Yamatai that I had to lock myself in a bathroom. Like, _the_ bathroom, not just a stall. I think I was in there for at least forty-five minutes before somebody called the janitor to open up the door.” She reaches up with the hand that isn’t under your chin, and pushes your hood down again. “There were a lot of people in that store, I get it, and it’s okay. I wasn’t completely comfortable being there either, I don’t think you noticed that. But I wasn’t.” You think back a bit and recognize the sofa lunge as an attempt to act normal. “This is going to take us time, alright? Don’t you dare think you disappointed me, Lara.” She’s smiling at you. “I’m proud of you. I’m so proud of you right now.”

Your voice is a little shaky. “Why?”

“Why? You came out with me. You didn’t even try to back out of it. Sweetie, I was proud of you the moment you stepped out of the house with me, even though you were wearing this monstrosity.” She tugs at your hoodie, clarifying what the monstrosity is. You don’t notice that she’s tugging at the same spot that you were, just as you didn’t notice that she softly pushed your arm down so that you would stop your own tugging.

You do however, understand now what that proud smile this morning was about. “I was just making a fashion statement.” There’s a ghost of a smile on your lips, and though you’re still speaking quietly, there’s the shakiness has left your voice.

“You were, huh? Should we go big and just splatter bleach everything?” The ghost has disappeared and your smile is small, but real. “You kicked ass today, Lara, and I’m proud of you.”

The two of you stare at each other for a moment, as your smile grows wider. You’re about to respond when she kisses you, the hand that’s still grasping your hoodie pulling you forward slightly. It takes a moment to register, but when it does, you reciprocate. It’s short and gentle, and it’s the first time in weeks that it’s felt _right_.

After she pulls away, she reaches past you and grabs the take-out bag. “So,” She has a huge grin on her face, which you assume is mirroring yours. “You wanna go buy some bleach? Or should we go ruin my keyboard with crumbs and grease while we spend too much money on the internet?”

You roll your eyes at her, she shrugs in response, and after you grab some plates, you start pushing her towards the bedroom, where her laptop is still plugged in.

Later, as you’re inexplicably browsing the home appliance department of Amazon, you remember the conversation that Sam might not. Even if she does, you want to say it again anyway. You forget that you’ve got a mouthful of quesadilla, and it comes out muddy, “Sham? I luff yoo.”

She doesn’t bother containing her laughter. “Lara, despite your terrible table manners, I think I love you too.” She’s still laughing as she shoves some fries into your mouth, and even though you’re coughing your way through the mouthful of food, you start laughing with her. It feels almost foreign, but it also feels genuine. It feels _good_ , and the two of you keep laughing throughout the night, clicking through pages of polkadot blenders, impractical modern art bedframes, and weird leg shaped lamps.

* * *

  _self help might help when it makes us laugh_

* * *

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I think I might do the whole Conversation Redux one shot thing with Sam's POV, but I'm not going to post it immediately, because I fucking love to backtrack and add little details in (comic books have taught me the art of the retcon). Might be a few details that would make more sense after a few more chapters of this. Maybe it'll end up being multiple chapters of Sam's POV throughout this.
> 
> Pointless story time, the zebra footstool was inspired by some curtains I have in my bedroom. I was at Walmart, I just wanted something cheap to block any light from ever entering my room, and now I have beautiful tri-tone zebra print curtains. They're white, bright blue, and really bright pink.
> 
> Coming soon: The Flushing


	7. The Flushing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, God. You get it now. _You’re here._ You try to block it out, but somewhere in the back of your mind you’re still on that sofa, and you can hear her repeating it at you. _You’re here. You’re here. You’re here._

After purchasing, as Sam predicted, far too many items on the internet, you're snuggled up together in bed. As par for the course you find yourself scratching at your side. Sam's hand blindly gropes around until it catches yours, stilling it. "Does it really still hurt that much?"

You're not sure what you should say, because it doesn't hurt, it doesn't itch, you honestly have no idea why you can't keep your hands off of it. You can't tell how Sam interprets your silence, but she once again gets out of bed to retrieve your painkillers. You've swung your legs over the side of the bed and you're sitting up at the edge when she returns with a glass of water and that little bottle of pills. As she puts the water down on the table beside you, she places the bottle in your hand. She must notice the way you're staring at the pills, because she stops herself before she rounds the bed. "Lara?"

There's no way that this can turn out good for anybody. You gently toss the bottle back at her, and not expecting it, she fumbles. "You take them."

She's halfway to picking the bottle up when your words catch up with her. "Uh, I'm not the one in pain?" She's got the bottle in her hand now, and she shakes it, scrutinizing the contents, as if they'll explain.

"No, I mean, you take them  _away_." She looks confused. "After the stitches, the second set of stitches, that is. After you got me stitched up, they were bothering me a bit, plus I couldn't sleep, so I took a few."

She's poured a few pills out into her palm, looking at them even closer. Not that it helps anything. "Sure."

You're not sure whether to tell the whole story or get straight to the point. It's not a long story, so you carry on where you left off. "You found me on the couch in the morning? Do you remember what I said?"

The pills plink back into the bottle and she joins you on the edge of the bed. "You're gonna have to be more specific." She's shaking the bottle again, and it almost seems like she's unable to sit still. As she rattles the bottle, she watches the pills tumble around.

You hope she knows that the frustrated noise you make is directed at yourself, not her. "Well, I had gotten up because of my nightmares, yeah? But then you woke me up, and I was telling you why I was on the sofa, and I realized that after I fell asleep out there, my dreams stopped."

"Okay…" She's not made the connection, though it's not that you've really given her all that much to connect.

You'll just get straight to the point then. "If I take them, I don't have dreams. At all. No good dreams, no bad dreams, no nightmares. Just sleep."

The shaking of the bottle slowly comes to a stop stop and her eyes aren't on the pills anymore. "Lara…"

"So I kept taking them." Straight to the point, you need to get straight to the point.

Now that you've gotten to the point, you fear that it may not have been the best tactic, as Sam's staring at you, silently. You wait for her to get angry. "Alright. So you did." To you, her voice sounds disturbingly mild. "But now you've told me.  _And_  given them away to me."

You don't understand why she's not yelling at you. "Why aren't you angry?"

"You're not looking at this from my side. It's- Lara, you were trying to cope. I assume." She tosses the bottle in the air, then catches it. "Obviously you shouldn't have kept taking them, unless you  _were_ actually in pain?" You shake your head. "Right, okay. But you were taking them in an attempt to cope, which is how a lot of people get addicted to things, I guess." You're sitting there, just blinking at her. "They made you feel better, so you took them again, and they made you feel better again, and you took them again, and they made you feel better again, and so on?"

"Uh, yeah. That- that sounds about right."

"Uh-huh. I somehow get the feeling that you didn't sit down one day and say," She slips into a gross imitation of your accent before continuing, "Well, I think that I'm going to try out a prescription pill addiction. Sounds like a spot of fun." You raise your eyebrows at her. "Okay, whatever, "spot of fun" is a stretch. Sweetie, taking them is the unconscious reaction, realizing that you shouldn't is the conscious one." She's making a fair amount of sense. "Then the next decision is whether or not you want to keep on taking them or to find something healthier that helps, right? You told me about them, and I'm hoping that means you want to find something better. Either way, you very easily could have lied to me."

You suppose that's true. "If I had, I would've taken them again tonight. They were literally in my hands. And you said… you were right that I'd probably take them tomorrow. And the next day. I did notice, and I didn't, well, I didn't see that path ending anywhere good. So you need to take them away."

She's smiling at you again. "I'm proud of you. For the second time today. That couldn't have been the easiest thing to tell me, and it's probably not easy to let these go."

She has no idea, you think. She said all the right things, though. In a weirdly articulate way, for her, at least. It didn't sound planned either, though. "Sam? How did you know what to say?"

"Huh?"

"I basically put you on the spot, and you were- don't take this the wrong way, but you were pretty sensible about that. And calm. Especially compared to… earlier." You'd like to be able to read her expression right now. "You just seemed like you knew exactly what to say."

"Oh. Well, good. Y'wanna have a short ceremony?"

You have no idea what she means by that, and she didn't come close to answering your question. But she starts heading towards the bathroom anyway, and after she realizes you aren't following, she beckons. When you catch up, she's standing over the toilet, uncapping the pills. "Any last words?"

You shrug, and dig a pill out of the bottle to address it. There's not really much to say you decide, so you don't waste your breath. There's a plop as the single pill hits the water.

Sam dumps the rest into the toilet, and flushes. The pair of you watch all the pills swirl away. You're still staring into the toilet when she lightly punches your arm, which catches your attention. "You did good, kid." She ruffles your hair. "You did real good."

Shortly after The Flushing, you're both back in bed, and you're once again cuddled up. Sam's been quiet for a few minutes, and though you're hesitant to sleep, hesitant to dream again, your eyelids are getting heavy. You're half dozed when Sam unexpectedly speaks. "Wait. Lara, if it wasn't hurting, why have you been picking at it so much?" You gamble on the chance that you've been taking deep sleepy breaths for long enough now that if you continue to do so, Sam will probably think that you're already asleep. You do so, and she doesn't say anything else.

You don't have nightmares, but you don't have a completely dreamless and restful sleep either. But for the first time, you decide that that's okay. You don't know if you're ready to talk about your dreams, but you accept that you're going to be having them. You watch Sam for a few minutes, and it seems she's sleeping peacefully enough. You're not even close to being in any sort of rush to get out of bed, and Sam has another empty day. That's something you might have to talk to her about today, the whole "hey Sam can you deal with all my stuff while I sit around on my butt" thing. You'll see how the day goes. For now though, staying here in bed with Sam seems like a pretty good idea. You're hazily trying to figure out what the two of you should do with the day when you drift back to sleep.

The next time you wake up is rather abrupt, and you're bumped slightly by Sam as she sits up, inhaling sharply. She's taking quick, shallow breaths and you aren't sure that she knows you're beside her. "Sam?" You half sit up, and reach forward to cover her hand, which is grasping the sheets, with your own.

When she feels your hand, hers relaxes and the sheets fall flat. "Lara." She still hasn't turned back to look at you, but at least she knows you're there. "Lara. Yeah." She blinks a few times to orient herself, and takes a few deep breathes, then flops back down on the bed. She looks like she's forcing herself to act normal. "Hey, sweetie. G'morning." You've never seen such a forced grin.

You don't respond with words, but with a knowing stare.

"Fine. Fine, fine, fine." She rubs at her face. "It  _was_  a dream. It wasn't very nice. And it was a new one."

You don't want to pry, she never has, but you will ask. "Do you w-"

"No."

Seems she's not ready to talk about her dreams either, as moments later, Sam gets out of bed and into the shower. You stay where you are, more out of a lack of anywhere to move to rather than to get more sleep. When Sam returns from the bathroom, she pulls the covers from you. "C'mon sleepyhead, since when does Lara Croft sleep in?" She isn't really exaggerating, as even through everything that's occurred (barring the hospital days), you've kept your regular sleep schedule. For no real reason other than to be stubborn, you grab the sheets back and pull them all the way over your head, then make a low growling noise as a warning.

When you enter the kitchen after emerging from the sheets and then showering, Sam is sitting on the counter, seemingly waiting for you. "So do I get some bacon today or what?"

You stare at her suspiciously; not only did you not have to convince her that you should cook breakfast, she's actually asking you to. "What are you trying to do?"

"Actually, I'm trying to get  _you_  to do something. But I guess the end goal is having some sort of meal in front of me," She pauses for a second. "It doesn't have to include bacon though, if you don't wanna fry it."

"Seriously, what are you playing at? I've had to plead my case to you every time I've wanted to even open the fridge." You open the fridge and sway the door back and forth, as if to make some sort of point.

She sucks in a breath through her teeth. "Yeah, okay, I thought maybe you didn't notice that. Or would just ignore it or something. I don't know. I don't fucking feel like I know very much anymore." You wonder what that's supposed to mean and she slides off the counter and pushes the fridge door closed. She starts to gently pry your hand away from the handle. You allow her to. "Okay, so I guess I have something to tell you, then. It's pretty small, I don't think we need to have a big serious sit down." What could she possibly have to tell you about bacon? You'll listen, regardless. "I'm pretty hungry though, so let's just have some toast at least, while I tell you?"

You lunge for the bread. "I'll make it."

When the plates clatter down on the table a few minutes later, Sam jumps slightly. You choose to ignore it, and proceed to introduce the meal instead. "Toast, as requested. Notice the slight brown colour, a more natural look compared a variation which adopts a blackened colour."

" _Holy shit_ , Lara, I  _know_  my toast is  _always_  shit displayed on, okay, well our dishes aren't really all that fancy but shit looks like… it looks like shit no matter what it's on." She instantly goes quiet after that and you stare at each other. You have no idea what to make of her outburst and exceptionally odd analogy. "Fuck, I didn't mean to get… I, um. Yeah."

"Er…"

"No, no, I know that was weird, and that's the thing. It's that this whole talking thing makes me a  _little_  nervous. Obviously. I guess I get a little on edge sometimes. Apparently I don't always make sense either. I probably shouldn't have started off that way. Yeah, definitely shouldn't have. But Lara, that's the point. My food  _is_ shit, and, uh, maybe I've even been making it a bit more shit on purpose lately."

You've finally sat down, though you still have no idea what's going on. You're two for two for confusion during Sam's explanations, which doesn't bode well. You don't think anybody could follow whatever  _this_  is, though. "I'd love to contribute, but I have literally no idea what is going on right now. Though I do agree your food is shit." You smirk slightly, hoping she knows you aren't upset. You understand that talking is rough, even if she's the one that's been doing most of it, so far.

"I don't know how to," She not at all delicately runs her hands through her hair and follows by scratching at the back of her neck. At this rate, she's going to rub the skin back there raw.

"Sam, we can do this later. Whatever this is is very obviously stressing you out." You reach across the table to smooth her hair as much as you can.

"No. Fuck. No, we'll do this now. That's  _the thing_. I guess I have two things to tell you, then." She pushes her toast to the side and plops an elbow down, resting her chin in her hand. Her other hand is running rings around the edge of her coffee mug. "It's just, and this isn't completely your fault, but it's just that even though we've agreed we need to work on… life, even though we've agreed, every time I start talking I- I get really worried that I'll say something wrong and you'll be done. I stutter and I ramble and it's because I'm scared I'll fuck this up. Then when I get nervous about fucking up I start losing control of what I'm saying and start saying things that are kind of fucked up and then that freaks me out and it's this horrible circle thing."

You're doing your best to keep up with her rapid words, and you're caught up just enough to try to encourage her, so you cut her off. "You were pretty great last night, Sam."

Her hand stops circling her mug, and she responds flatly, "Fabulous." Within seconds she's back to fidgeting with her mug, and she speeds back up. "But, Lara, I fuck up just once, just enough to accidentally push you away instead of helping, I fuck up just once and you could be gone. Physically. Mentally. Both. You could, I don't know, you could straight up leave, or you could… what's the opposite? Retreat into yourself? Maybe so much so that I won't be able to pull you back out again, because- again, not all your fault, but because it's already taken… it's taken too long for us to work on this. But if I fuck up and lose you in any way, Lara, I," When her voice cracks, she stops momentarily and sniffles, blinking rapidly. "I don't know what the hell I'd do. When I did the couch thing, when I cancelled it, I was so fucking angry. At you, and at me. I was so upset that I didn't think about what I was doing. And then you came in, and you yelled at me, and I realized how shitty I had just acted. I was so scared, Lara. I was scared to come out to find you, because what if you weren't there to find?" Oh. "Because you were gone somehow?" Oh, God. You get it now.  _You're here_. You try to block it out, but somewhere in the back of your mind you're still on that sofa, and you can hear her repeating it at you.  _You're here. You're here. You're here._

You want to say  _something_ , but you don't know what. As horrible as it makes you feel, you actually don't know if you can promise anything right now.

"Not to mention the fact that if I fuck up in a way that, fuck, in any way that damages you… it would all be my fault. I don't know if I could handle knowing that I was the one who," Her hand is running through her hair again, which is now a mess again. "How could I deal with being the one that broke you? Especially after everyfuckingthing you went through to save my sorry ass. And all of this shit is because of what you went through, and Lara… Lara, what if I fuck up?"

The phantom hand from the other night decides to spare your heart, but punches you in the gut instead. You have to reassure her, somehow. "Sam, you aren't going to scare me away by telling the truth." When you tell her that, you realize that if she's going to tell the truth, you need to as well. "Actually, no, I take that back." The expression that instantly takes over her face has the potential to destroy you. "No, no! God, Sam, what I mean is that I can't promise that one hundred percent. I'd love to, but I can't. I promise I'll do my absolute best to keep myself in check, alright? I will do the best I can to hear you out, and I understand that not everything you say is going to come out perfectly." She nods, and is back to just looking worried. You don't ever want to see that other look again. "But you have to promise me that you'll do the same, when we get to you. I don't think I need to tell you how I'd feel if I hurt you, in a way that we can't mend?" She nods. "Besides, I've fucked up enough for the both of us, no?"

Her eyes are on her toast as she murmurs  _just_  loud enough for you to be able to catch what she says. "Yeah, well, it's not just you." Phantom hand gut-punches you again, a little softer this time.

"Sam, tell me, please." Your voice is little more than a whisper as well.

"Yeah, okay." Her eyes leave the toast and return to meet yours. "Yeah. Y'know how we were talking about how you don't really seem to, uh, you don't, you aren't-"

"You can say it Sam, you've already said it." She never officially said  _it_  but you don't think that's what she's struggling with at the moment.

Her foot is tapping, you can hear it. "I have. Yeah. Okay, so you don't really seem interested in much of anything?" It comes out as a question again, and she pauses as if waiting for you to cut in. You don't. "So you haven't been showing interest in a lot of stuff, but you, uh, you told me you wanted to make breakfast one day. And it kinda surprised me a little, and I was a little hesitant for… reasons. I ended up arguing with you, just a little bit." You remember that, and flash a quick, not quite genuine, but hopefully encouraging smile. "You just, you really wanted to cook and it was kinda weird, y'know? Like, you won't look at a book but you're yelling at me about toast? I don't know if you had a bad night or something, but for whatever reason, you told me you were getting sick of, wait, what did you call it? Oh, yeah, you were sick of eating "the remains of a recently deceased piece of bread." She snorts a little as she remembers it, and her attempt to mimic your accent makes you chuckle slightly. "Right? It's actually pretty funny. Like, five minutes later, I wasn't even mad because you said it to me dead serious, which was kinda ridiculous. But yeah, anyway, that was maybe one of the first times that you really tried to convince me to let you do something, other than that first jog. And as small as it was, it was  _something_."

She's paused again, and you aren't sure if it's out of hesitation or not but you want her to continue either way. "I think I get that, I can see how that would be out of the ordinary for me right now. So I understand how that might stand out to you." You do, but again you can't figure out the bigger picture she's trying to paint.

"Oh. Good." Her hand pulls away from her mug just long enough to rub at the back of her neck again. When she's back to running rings around her mug, she starts talking again. "The next day, you didn't ask. I waited, we had a fairly late breakfast because I was waiting. I wanted you to want to do something again, even if it was just flipping some fucking bacon. So I might have, possibly, started burning shit intentionally? And I mean, we've been eating take out for lunch and supper pretty much constantly, so I only had one chance a day to, uh," Whatever she's about to say causes her to look away from you. "I really only had one chance a day to piss you off?" The next four words repeat rapidly, barely legible, to form one long mess. "IknowIknowIknowI'msorryIknowandI'msorryIknowI'msorry."

Oddly, you don't feel upset about what she's just told you. "Sam, stop, get some air. I think I'm getting it, and it's okay, but you need to finish telling me."

She looks at you, and it looks as if somebody has just removed multiple dumbbells from her shoulders. "Oh God, okay. I just thought that you'd be more intent on removing me from the kitchen if I kept fucking up toast. Toast, for fuck's sake. Do you know how many time I toasted the same piece of bread some mornings?" The mental image of Sam toasting, inspecting, and then retoasting, is absolutely hysterical to you and you accidentally laugh. She laughs too, weakly. "Yeah, I mean, food hasn't ever been my strong suit, but I could at least make toast. You didn't ask why I kept giving you completely burnt toast, but you started asking me to let you cook. But then I thought that if I said "yup, go right ahead" without hesitation, you might lose interest? I don't know, until I googled, and I've still barely googled, I haven't known how to deal with any of our shit, so I kinda went with what seemed like good ideas when I had to." You take note of the fact that she said "our shit", as opposed to "your shit". "It's just, I thought if I kept making it somewhat of a challenge for you, you would maybe keep trying. You've always liked a challenge, y'know? I mean, this isn't on the same level as some huge hike but… somehow, it ended up working, so I would argue with you every morning ev-"

"Even though you wanted me to cook." You finish for her. "Which is why you gave in so easily so often."

"Basically. You aren't mad?" Phantom hand flicks you in chest, hard, to remind you that she asked you that a few nights ago, although she sounds about ten times less vulnerable while she's fully awake.

You wonder if repeated snippets of the conversation are enough to check it off the "issues to cover" list. "No, Sam. I'm not mad at you. It's alright." You instantly decide that it isn't enough. "That was actually a little clever, if slightly odd." She musters up a smug grin. It's probably time to move on, you decide, if only for her sake. "So, I'm going to assume that our food here is somewhat cold by now." You both look down at your plates. She stabs at an egg with her fork. "But it isn't cremated, so do you think we can deal?"

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure I can handle this." You know that the amount of relief that she's showing is causing your stomach to knot. What you don't know is if it's knotting in a good way or a bad way. After all, the stress that's she's been dealing with only exists because of you.

You've finished eating and once again, Sam's sitting on the counter beside you, kicking her feet and watching you do the dishes. "You do realize that you're a giant child, right?" She makes a point to kick her feet out in a way that causes them to "accidentally" collide with your arm. "Ah yes, what an adult response that was." When you raise your head to grin at her, she's sticking her tongue out at you. It's impossible to keep a straight face, and while your face is busy smiling, your brain has suddenly come up with an idea for how to spend the day. This is the kind of exchange that would normally be documented, and most likely rewatched. Although you'd miss some of Sam's antics as she'd be the one holding the camera, it would still be entertaining. And maybe being able to watch back certain interactions or conversations might somehow be beneficial to this self-help journey the two of you have started. God forbid either of you even  _consider_  getting outside, professional help. Google is a good enough doctor right now.

Sam continues acting like a child, you continue doing the dishes. As you place the final plate on the drying rack, you side-step so you're facing her completely. Whatever look is on your face right now makes Sam sober almost instantly. You didn't mean for that, but even if you had plastered some sort of playful expression on your face, you'd just be delaying the inevitable. "So hey, we have another whole day to ourselves. You have any ideas what we should do?"

"I have a feeling that  _you_  might have one." She's not bothering to avoid, which is one small step, you figure.

Leaning forward so that your hands are on the counter beside Sam, inadvertently trapping her between your arms, you do your best to hold a smile. "Thought maybe we could dust off the camera. Document our day." She looks at you slightly vacantly, and around the time that you notice how close your faces are, she leans forward to rest her forehead against yours.

"At least I've already got a new one." You know the one that followed you around Yamatai still works. She takes a shaky breath, and when you feel it, you decide not to remind her of that fact. "C'mon, let's go unbox it and toss the instructions. When have instructions ever been fun?"

You're still impressed by her ability to say things that probably completely contradict what she's thinking. It also still concerns you, but you push that to the side for the moment. "Unbox it?" She straightens, so she can see your face as you talk. "Isn't that some sort of YouTube thing? Should we record that too?" A lazy smile, much more genuine than it was a few moments ago, is on your lips.

Unimpressed, she scoffs at you. Then her forehead is back against yours, and her voice is quiet as she whispers in a slightly sing-song way, "Don't push your luck, Croft." Despite her upbeat tone, a heavy sigh follows. You stay where you are, only moving once to bring your hand up to lightly brush her cheek. You're content with waiting for her until she feels ready.

* * *

_i don't wanna know who i am without you_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter's secondary title is "well this feels like filler but it ties up two things that i wanted to tie up so oh well".
> 
> this chapter's tertiary title is "i have a migraine i don't feel like waiting to do a second proofread tomorrow we'll survive and i can fix any critical errors in the morning".
> 
> I've read something that talked about how suicide occurs when one's pain exceeds their resources for coping with pain. I figure the same sort of logic applies to addiction, in a way. Luckily, Lara has Sam as a resource. (Also, don't discard medication by flushing it down the toilet. Unless it's some sort of emergency need to get rid of this now situation. It's much better to take them to a pharmacy and ask them to get rid of them for you.)
> 
> Sam would totally be fidgety and restless while talking about this kind of shit, even if she wasn't worried about Lara, right?
> 
> I had another scene in here that I ended up getting rid of because I realized that I cut almost all allusions that I made to it in earlier chapters. Oops. You might be able to figure out what it was, or a general idea at least.
> 
> Tune in later for: The Potato Whisperer


	8. The Potato Whisperer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “The second reason, well, it’s somewhat of a more complicated matter.” A sigh comes from behind the camera. “There is, what you could perhaps call a request for a specific meal. Personally, I would call it more of an order than a request.”

You're sitting on the ground, attempting to sort all of the new camera debris into piles of "recycle", "trash", and "we should probably keep this". Sam's sitting across from you, playing with various settings on the camera as she waits for it to fully charge. The Yamatai Camera, along with The Yamatai Memory Cards are sitting on a desk, about as far away from the two of you as possible. "Y'know, Lara, you drive a pretty hard bargain."

It's been a few minutes since you started examining a piece of plastic that looks like it's intended for  _something_  when she speaks. You give up on determining exactly what you're looking at and toss it into the "we should probably keep this" pile. "What's that mean? You didn't object to this. You didn't immediately jump at the suggestion, but it wasn't like I needed to persuade you."

"That's true, but  _you_ , you were fucking awesome yesterday." Evidently the camera is on, as she sweeps it dramatically over you before turning it to herself. "She really was, you shoulda seen it." She is, of course, addressing the camera. Not as comfortably as she has in the past, but it looks like she's trying her best. Her attention flips back to you at the same time the camera does. "You were awesome, and you didn't complain. And after the initial… you didn't even get all that upset at the way I pushed you."

You're conflicted. The fact that she's doing this is fantastic, but you don't want her motive to be "if Lara did it then I have to too". "You know you can say no, Sam. I think this is a good idea, but I don't want you doing this if you aren't ready."

The camera's aim floats sideways a bit. "No, no, no. I can- I have to do this, because putting it off? That'll just drag this out longer and that'd probably make it harder, and besides I'm, uh, I'm maybe eighty-seven percent sure that I can do this right now. This," She gestures to the camera in her hand, which causes the aim to sway to the other side. "We can work with this. That," She points over her head at the desk containing The Yamatai Camera and Memory Cards. "That stuff is going to have to wait a little longer."

At first you try to reposition yourself in front of the camera, and when that fails, you reach out and lightly push it so she's aiming it directly at you. "Okay, that seems like a good deal to me. So you're absolutely okay with this then?" Although the question was directed at the camera, you had assumed that Sam would answer. Instead, she's just watching the LED screen. "Hey, I'm proud of you." You point at the camera, getting as close to the lens as you dare.

The camera tilts down slightly. "I haven't even done anything yet."

"Apparently you were proud of me for simply putting on a  _very fashionable_  hoodie on yesterday." You give up talking to the camera, and try to meet Sam's eyes over it. "I think I can be proud of you for giving a go at documenting…" You look around at the camera debris scattered around you. You're not going to say it to the camera, but it almost feels like an apt metaphor for everything scattered in your head right now. "Uh, all this excitement." You pick up a piece of styrofoam and throw it at the camera lens. "See all this action? How amazing would that have been in 3D?" When she scoffs at you again, she drops the camera so that it's pointing completely downwards. You lean forward and roll to the side so that you can fit your face in the frame. "I think you need to brush up on keeping the camera steady, though."

"Oh." She looks down at her hand. "It's a new style I'm trying." The camera raises back up and is flipped to face her once again. "I thought that since we were trying for a new fashion and/or furniture trend, I could go for a new directing trend." The camera is still pointed at her, but she's looking at you now. "I'm feeling that it'll really grab the reality crowd. I think I'll call it the "Life Off the Rails" style. Catchy?"

Your hand is rubbing at your side as you respond. "Seems appropriate." You're painfully aware that once again, like at Larry's, she's probably not actually talking about filming anymore.

"Yeah, well hopefully I'll have a better name for it by the time this becomes my sleeper hit." Her eyes dropped back down to the camera for that statement. She stares into the lens a moment longer, silently, then snaps the LED shut, a general indicator that she's stopped filming. "I think I can give this a go, but I have a question first."

"Ask away, my future award-winning director."

"Sure, one day in the future we'll spend our days rolling around in piles of little gold statues of naked dudes." Her voice is flat, and you don't think that it's completely because of the sarcasm of the statement. "I'm obviously the director of-" Her hand waves vaguely in the direction of The Yamatai Memory Cards. "And we're okay that we're not going to look at that right now?" You're unsure why she's double checking that, but you affirm and she continues, "But I'm not the director of what we saw the other day. We haven't watched it." Your stomach drops. "Do you think that we should do that maybe? Just to make sure there isn't anything too terrible in it?"

Her wording, the wording of every allusion to  _that_  conversation is so incredibly similar to the original. You're starting to think that it's not a coincidence anymore. She's not brought it up directly yet, and you're not sure if you're ready to do it yourself. You feel like an absolute coward every time you don't take an opportunity to bring it up. "I'm not too worried. I had to dig through the depths of Netflix hell to find that series. Even if there's something we need to shut down, I think it can wait a little longer. You've already sent out so many phone calls anyway." You continue to be a coward.

"I guess if you're okay with it…" She's focusing very intensely on sorting lenses. "I'm just concerned that they might've gone all supernatural on you. It's not like we've been able to keep the whole Himiko part of the story completely hidden." No, it's not like  _she's_  been able to, as you've been too self-absorbed to care what rumours have been thrown around.

But it's the way that she says "Himiko" that causes you to not immediately dismiss the conversation. "If it's Himiko that you're concerned about-"

"Even if it is, I'm not the one being documented, so I don't make the call. We'll wait." She's about to shut down on the subject, but if you're quick enough, you might be able to salvage something.

"Sam…"

You aren't fast enough this time, as by the time her name is out of your mouth, she's got the camera pointed at you again. You'd forgotten how damn fast she could be with that thing. "So, what thrilling adventures are we documenting today?"

She can't keep bottling everything up, but you're the one who suggested the whole camera thing, and you're afraid that nixing it yourself might send some sort of mixed message. You make a snap decision to keep going with this. "I think we have enough bleach left to make a homemade house bleaching tutorial." It's unfortunate that the camera isn't facing her at that moment, as her adorable annoyed reaction is something you could easily watch over and over. "What? I thought you wanted bleached to be the new pink? Hundred thousand YouTube hits, I guarantee you." Her hand comes into the frame just long enough for her to lightly backhand you.

"I suppose if we  _did_  do that, and got that many hits, we could throw some subliminal messaging in the background. You think maybe we can hook you up with some sort of McDonald's partnership? Get you involved in Big Mac meals somehow?" She's got what is probably meant to be a scheming grin on her face.

Over the years, you've learned that when in doubt, give Sam a movie reference to play on. "I think Target might be a better choice. They have that bullseye logo. Give me a bow and I'll be splitting arrows in the centre of it."

"Seems like today's tutorial is on get rich quick schemes." The camera stays focused on you as she stands up. "Anyway, McDonald's brainwashing might be easier. Unless you wanna franchise some Targets a little closer to us than somewhere in Texas."

You're too busy scooping up all the bits and pieces in the "we should probably keep this" pile to stand up, but you stop momentarily to look up at her, and shrug. "Whatever gets us the richest the quickest. I've heard that money buys happiness."

She responds far too quickly. "Sweetie, if it did, I'd happily sign into life-long debt this instant." You've said the wrong thing, as her voice is now bleakly tinged and you saw the record light on the camera blink off slightly before you finished talking. You could try to say something more, but you're not sure what would help right now, so instead you simply follow her out of the room with an armful of bits and bobs.

You're sitting on the couch, staring at the TV screen even more vacantly than normal. The intro to a random episode of your documentary show has just finished, and as the narrator starts to narrate, your personal narrator pops into view and also starts to narrate. "Here we see the domesticated Croft in her natural habit." Sam steps in front of you to get a straight on shot. You bob your head around her to continue staring at the screen. "Notice how her attention never sways from the pull of the almighty Netflix."

You poke at the mute button on the remote in your hand. "Okay. No. I'm done." You stop pretending to watch the show and talk to Sam through the camera. "I'm not even watching this. You're making me watch this so you can film it. Although do I appreciate the effort you went to to figure out which episodes I missed."

The camera keeps recording. "What the hell else am I supposed to record, Lara? What other riveting activities have you been up to lately?" It doesn't come out harshly, more exasperated than anything, and you know it isn't meant as an insult but it still stings. You unconsciously flinch, and she must see it, because she follows up with a timid "sorry".

"We could go outside and get some footage of me having an anxiety attack." You don't know if what happened yesterday was legitimately an anxiety attack, (you don't know if you even want to think about classifying it as that) but she knows what you mean.

"You," Instead of using the zoom, Sam steps closer to you and the camera is now much closer to your face. "You were the one who suggested this. Seriously, what am I documenting? Surely there's something you can do here."

"Give me a moment to think. And don't call me Shirley." She shoots a glare at you as you look around the room. There really isn't much. You can see into the door of your study, but you don't want your attempts to reacquaint yourself with your "nerd stuff" recorded. You glance at the clock, and and idea comes to you. "Well, it's getting close to lunch. How about we document me doing some cooking, instead of ordering in for once?"

"Yuh-huh. So the thing about "not ordering in for once", kinda means that we need to have something to cook other than breakfast stuff." You didn't think about that.

She's doing this for you, and it only seems fair that you bite the bullet to help her get her camera legs back. "Yeah… so how  _do_  you feel about getting some anxiety footage?" She squints at you. "We can kill two birds with one stone, if you're up to it. If you promise me you'll keep up with the camera today, we can go out and buy some things for me to cook. God, I can't believe this is something I'm actually encouraging, but you can even follow me around with the camera while we shop."

She looks uncomfortable. You feel uncomfortable. There's uncomfortable silence surrounding the two of you and it's your fault and you're going to have to experience it again, later, because Sam still hasn't turned the camera off. After what feels like an eternity, Sam tells you, "We have to go somewhere small."

"Wouldn't have it any other way." You give a thumbs up at the camera as you kick off your bunny slippers.

Sam allows you to drive the car this time, because she can't film and drive at the same time (she might  _try_  if you weren't around to protect her from herself). So she's sitting in the passenger seat beside you, the direction of the camera alternating from you to out the window. To give Sam a break from having to constantly do it herself, you narrate as well as you can while driving. "As you can see," the camera is currently pointed out the window. "We have passed many a store to procure food products from. I can explain that to you with two simple points," you motion at Sam to turn the camera back to you, and she does. "The first reason being that we've agreed that we don't want to go to a busy shop today, so most of the large chain stores are out of the question." Sam spits out a few words of agreement. Although she's out of frame she's always needed to have some input. "The second reason, well, it's somewhat of a more complicated matter." A sigh comes from behind the camera. "There is, what you could perhaps call a request for a specific meal. Personally, I would call it more of an order than a request."

"There was nothing to stop you from vetoing! Like, there was no sabotage implied, and I don't recall threatening you. From what I can remember, you happily agreed to my suggestion." The camera flips towards Sam for the first time since you entered the vehicle. "We have the footage! You probably just watched it! There was no editing out any hostilities, I swear to you."

You loudly clear your throat and the camera is back on you again. "Yes, well, if you rewind back to the event, I will admit that I agreed on Italian food." The camera bobs as Sam whoops in victory. You're at a red light, so you turn to face the camera. "But I did not," you shoot your best glare directly into the lens. "I did not at any point agree  _to make the pasta from scratch._ "

Sam's voice is about as dry as the Sahara. "Yet I notice that we're still driving around looking for a place to find the proper ingredients." As you refocus your attention on the road, you make a somewhat unnecessarily rude gesture in the general direction of the camera, and more importantly, Sam.

You honestly aren't all that miffed with the turn of events, but it's always been fun to poke fun at Sam about small things, and she's always known when you aren't being serious. "We need to find the perfect potatoes Sam, I can't very well just stop and buy them from the first produce section available." Again, not all that true, but the two of you have been having fun bickering while you've been driving. It's nice to be able to have a silly argument, especially since Sam has relaxed considerably after your initial stop to buy some generic ten-minute-boil pasta.

You could tell that she had been slightly on edge, her own commentary starting to become somewhat choppy and short. You, of course, stepped in, which is why you're currently doing more of your own narration than what you remember doing in the past. But you had been about to grab a packet of penne from the shelf when you saw Sam suddenly whip the camera, and herself, to face farther back past your aisle. Before following, you plopped the penne back down on the shelf, sensing that the original plan had changed. When you caught up, you picked up the tail end of what seemed to be a very passionate monologue about gnocchi. You had also picked up on the phrase "home-made", which is when you started talking to Sam from behind her back. "Sam, somehow I have the feeling that I'm very much going to regret when I took you out to that fancy Italian place." But when she turned to face you, you saw a particular spark in her eyes that'd been absent for awhile. Plus, what you had caught of her monologue was much more natural, much more  _Sam_  than almost anything else that she had recorded so far.

"You won't regret it when we're feasting like royalty later! C'mon, let's go get lunch and then we can start making supper instead." Sam had never strayed much from basic pasta until that restaurant, when she ordered the daily special of gnocchi based purely on the fact that she thought it was a cool sounding word. For whatever reason, she had taken an immediate liking to it and unfortunately, the two of you later found out that pre-packaged gnocchi was quite inadequate when compared to it's fresh made counterpart. "Pleeeeaaase Lara, let's try and make some. It can't be that hard, can it?" You could immediately feel anxiety pool in your gut at the prospect of having to make another stop. However, her enthusiasm combined with her pleading beat any objections out of you and you agreed on an attempt after having a quick lunch.

Sam had put away the camera while the two of you sat in the car, parked outside of a burger joint that had looked sufficiently empty. Instead of filming, she was scrolling through recipe websites on her phone. When she showed you three or four recipes that matched up, they all seemed reasonable enough that you didn't immediately regret giving in.

And now, driving around looking for the perfect potatoes, you still don't regret it because while the initial burst of enthusiasm that showed up has petered down a bit, Sam's still looking more comfortable with that camera in her hand, and that's the way things should be. Within the last few blocks, you've passed three perfectly good potato retailers and as much as you're enjoying this chunk of normality, you figure that if you want to eat tonight, you probably need to get some ingredients soon. You also desperately want relief from the anxiety that's still prodding at you. Sam pokes fun at you as you park outside a store that's nearly identical to one that you had dismissed earlier. She's walking up to the store, talking to the camera, telling it about the little known sixth sense of the domesticated Croft; the ability to detect the best potatoes within a wide radius. You're behind her, locking up the car, and a smile creeps onto your face as you watch her slip further back into her natural persona while still filming, and commentating simultaneously. You jog a little to catch up and hip bump her to the side so you can enter the small shop first, declaring, "The potato whisper must lead the way!". Sam pauses for a moment, and before she recovers, you see  _the look_  flash across her face. You've still got the door in your hand, opened for her to follow behind you. You don't know what possess you to say it, but you do. "Yeah, Sam, I  _am_  messed up but I've noticed now, okay? Come on, let's go get some potatoes and get home."

Her head pulls back and she's staring at you over the camera, somewhat wide-eyed. "You… wait, what?"

You grab her by the elbow, and pull her through the door. "Potatoes. Gnocchi. Let's go."

She's quiet for a minute, but then slips back into her narrative. The unease that's just made it's way out of your stomach is worth it, you think, to see that camera start to become a natural extension of her arm again. You've kept your stress levels at bay by sticking to the least busy places you can find. That was actually more of a requirement than any particular potatoes, if you're being honest. You've been out long enough that you're starting to feel slightly too jumpy though, which Sam is now well aware of. So you speed shop while she follows you, doing her best to keep you in frame. You hold it together long enough to get home, but it still takes you a short time to settle back down, which Sam thankfully understands. You aren't too bothered, it's not like it can be that hard to roll some little dough balls.

Turns out that rolling little dough balls isn't as easy as one might think. Boiling and smushing potatoes was simple enough. Too simple, almost. You're almost scared to ask what the next step is, but you do and Sam tells you that you need to add flour to the mashed up potatoes. How helpful. "Could you be a little more specific, please?" She shrugs at you and shows you the recipe, which states: 'knead in enough flour to make soft dough'. "Enough? How much is enough? Is there some new measuring system that I don't know about?"

"How should I know? I can't even make toast, remember?" You grumble at her and she rests the camera on the counter, snatching her phone back from you. You mash at the potatoes some more as you watch her tap the screen rapidly. She holds the phone out at you and you squint at it to read her Google search; "how to convert "enough" to metric system".

" _Sam!_ " You grab the camera from the counter to make a record of her ridiculous search.

" _Lara!_ " She rips the camera from your hands and starts wiping potato residue from it. While she flails about with paper towels, you tab back to the recipe. What exactly qualifies as soft dough, anyway?

After watching you agonize over measuring cups, Sam steps in and grabs the bag of flour, pouring it directly into the mixing bowl. She's still got her camera in one hand, and she's ignoring you in favour of it. "Now, see, this is how real chefs do things. No measurements, you just have to  _know_. You just have to go with that gut feeling." The flour is piling up quite rapidly. "And… shit! Gut says stop, gut says stop!" The camera hampers her efforts as she, not at all delicately, pulls the bag away and plops it back on the counter beside you. A white puff flies into the air, and you restrain yourself from saying anything as most of it falls down, almost like snow, and settles on you. "Uh, is it too late to scoop some of this out?" Sam's staring into the bowl, pushing the top layer of flour around with her finger.

"Oh, no. No, we are not. You have to live with the consequences of your what your gut has done." It's too late to save the area from a mess, so you pinch a small amount of flour and flick it at her. She rapidly brushes at her hair, but it doesn't do much other than spread the mess around her whole head. While she's distracted, you grab the camera from her again. "Alright kids, here's today's lesson;  _sometimes your gut lies._ Don't take its advice blindly. I mean, the last few times that I trusted my gut, I ended up sliding down waterfalls and falling from planes." You have no idea what prompted you to say that, and you have no idea how you let it slip out.

The room is suddenly dead quiet. "I…" Words fail you as you try to fill the silence. Sam's concerned face disappears from the camera as it drops down with your arm. It films the floor as you stare past Sam, not quite reliving your parachuted descent through the forest, but not completely in the kitchen either. You feel the weight of the camera disappear from your hand and you're vaguely aware of Sam depositing it on the floury counter.

She's standing in front of you now. "Lara?" You feel a hand running over a scar near your shoulder. "Lara, you're here in the kitchen, cooking. You aren't- Lara. Come back." The tone of her voice (fear?), the tone catches you, and you close your eyes for a minute.

"I don't know where that… I don't know why I said that." You don't know what else you can add to that, so you just watch Sam's fingers and they follow the worst of your scars. When she reaches a particularly bad one, she lowers her gaze.

"M'sorry." It comes out quiet and somewhat slurred, the same way it did when she was partially asleep. You don't understand.

"Why? What are you apologizing for?" You slide her hand away from your shoulder, and she looks up at you.

"Because- I'm just. It wasn't… I'm just sorry."

You've ruined another good day, but you'll be damned if you don't try to salvage it. "Right, well now that that's out of the way, should we start mixing up this dough?"

"Out of the way? How is this out of the way?" She looks utterly defeated. "Lara, don't you think that maybe we shoul-"

You ignore what exactly it is that you supposedly got out of the way, as well as what you should perhaps do regarding it, and interrupt her by flicking another pinch of flour in her direction. "Let's cook." You grab the camera and turn it back on, hoping that you're being convincing enough.

For possibly the first time in her life, Sam puts her hand up over the lens. "Sweetie…"

"This stuff isn't going to cook itself." The forced smile that you're wearing must be enough, because she pulls her hand away from the camera. She doesn't seem impressed with your avoidance and she doesn't look like she completely believes that you're good to go; you aren't, if you're honest. But if you can push yourself for a few more minutes, you can probably get everything back on track again.

Sam stays still for a few more seconds before she waggles her fingers at you. "Fine. But give me that camera back, you're getting potato goop all over it." You do, but not before you flick your hand at her, sending little bits of dough flying at her.

She does  _not_  look amused, and you're glad the camera is facing her to record it. "And to think, she was calling  _me_  a child mere hours ago." She wipes a smudge of flour from the counter and deposits it on your nose. "Alright, Chef Croft, get going and show me your skills." A tiny grin is making it's way onto her face.

You've got her back behind the camera, and now it's time to do your part, so you look back down into the bowl to evaluate the situation. "Well, it's time to find out if you magically poured out however much "enough" is". You over-dramatically begin to mix the dough, and turn your head to face Sam. "No turning back now." She gives you a strange look when you say it. Deciding that ignoring it is the best course of action at the moment, you continue to zealously mix the potatoes.

You pull your hands away from the bowl as Sam zooms in on it. "No, now it's  _too_  hard." You've been playing Goldilocks for the past fifteen minutes, with Sam evaluating the firmness of the dough each time you make a new effort to reach the  _very_  descriptive goal of "soft". After the initial mixture not so surprisingly turned out far too stiff to even be considered dough, Sam did some more Googling and found that adding water to the mix might help the situation. Unfortunately, you had let her pour the water, a task she took on without using any sort of measuring system. Again. Once you had finished mixing it, she had declared it to be too soft, and shuffled the bag of flour towards you.

The size of the dough ball has increased rather drastically since the first attempt. "Sam, I think we might have more flour than potato in here." You slap her hand away as she tries to poke at it once more. Another puff of flour flies into the air as you do so, and you sigh. "And I think we somehow have more flour on us than we do in the mix." You grab the bowl and pull it as far away from her as possible, and she pouts at you. "I don't care what you think anymore, we're moving on."

"This is your fault, you know." You just stare at her. "Okay, so it's my fault for the initial measurement of flour, yeah, but you were the one that went along with it." She yelps as the lens of the camera is suddenly obscured by a thick white cloud.

By the time you had "mastered" rolling the dough into small balls that vaguely looked like gnocchi, you knew it was a lost cause. Still, you dropped the first batch into the boiling water and waited for them to cook. Sam immediately snatches one up when they finish, and then whines about it burning her fingers. You will yourself to hold back any more comments, and take the camera from her to film her assessment of your concoction.

She chews for a moment, then gives you a horrified look as she spits it back out into her hand. "What the fuck have we created? Oh my god, what have we created?"

"Not good?" A hand comes up to cover your mouth, hiding your smirk.

"Well, if we were trying to create a new formula for rubber, then yeah, maybe good. But this," She grabs another ball and holds it up to the camera. "This is  _not_  food." She throws it at you, presumably for you to try. You pop it in your mouth.

You had intended to be a little less dramatic than Sam was, but as you unintentionally make a show of choking down your creation, you realize that she hadn't been exaggerating. "That's, wow, that is something, isn't it?" You knew it would be bad, but you thought it would at least qualify as edible. You'd rather have Sam's toast.

"Right? Rest in peace, you perfect potatoes." She dumps the uncooked lumps of horror into the bin and glances up at the clock. "I think that Italian place delivers. It should still be open, right?"

You reach for your phone.

After yet another awkward encounter with a delivery person (although it was only flour you were covered with this time, and there was also a lack of screamed obscenities), you and Sam are slumped on the couch, takeout containers resting in your laps.

"Do y'think the flour adds to the bleached look?" You raise an eyebrow. She holds up her hands in surrender. "Just saying."

You look down at the mess of a cushion beside you. You've really done a number on the poor thing. "Sam, I just want it out of here."

"I know, sweetie. I know." She gives you a smile that's bordering on sad. "You do know that when it goes, it's not going to take everything else with it though. We're still going to have to talk some things out." Your hand scratches at your side. "Everything we haven't covered yet, plus anything  _else_  that might happen to come up."

You feel like an ass, as you should. "I know, and I'm so- uh, I probably shouldn't have avoided. But we were actually having fun, like we used to. I didn't want to mess that up. Well, I mean, I did mess it up, but then I fixed it as much as I could."

"And I'm not going to lie, I appreciate that. But can't start ignoring things now, not after we've just started to acknowledge them." She puts her empty takeout container on the end table beside her, then does the same with yours. "No more pretending to be fine, when you clearly aren't." You scootch closer to her, until you're close enough that you can lean back into her. "Deal?"

Of course it's a deal. You aren't going to go back on your word, and you aren't going back to the fake bravado of being okay. You aren't going to let her either, and it feels like it might finally be the right time to ask about it. "Mhm. Since we're on the topic of pretending things are fine," Your chest feels tight, and you know you wouldn't feel as bad asking this if you hadn't already pulled some answers out of her when you shouldn't have. "About the fact that I've been essentially forcing you to deal with a lot of the garbage that I should be working on…"

"What, you mean with the media and the publicity bullshit? Y'know, it's actually starting to die down already. I think we kept enough supernatural crap out of it, without that stuff I think people aren't as interested."

She might be lying, she might not be, you have no idea because you've not been paying any attention at all. "Yeah. I feel terrible about that, about putting all that pressure on you. I never wanted to make you feel like… like it was your job to, I don't know, to protect me from it all. I never meant for you to do it  _all_  for me, Sam. I know I wasn't interested, but," You don't actually know if the next part is true, but you're going to say it anyway. "But I wouldn't have gotten upset if you needed my help every once in awhile. It wouldn't have been- it wouldn't have been a bother."

"Oh." She wraps her arms around you and tugs you a bit closer. "That whole thing." A moment later she sighs and rests her chin on your head. "I was wondering if you were going to bring that up." She doesn't bother clarifying. "Yeah, I remember it." You feel slightly sick. "I actually wasn't sure that you did 'cause you never said anything. And then when you told me… God, this is probably terrible of me; but after you told me about the painkillers, I was kinda hoping that on top of the whole dream erasure thing? Well, you never said anything about what I had told you that night, and then you told me about the pills? I, uh, I might have hoped that maybe they had also fucked with your short term memory. Like, between you taking them and falling asleep."

* * *

_bottle up and explode, over and over, keep the troublemaker below, put it away and check out for the day_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whoopsie!
> 
> You may notice that there is now a playlist on 8tracks also called you've ripped your stitches. That is because there are now eight chapters and therefore eight songs. You will notice that it collects the songs that I've been yanking lyrics from. You will also notice that the playlist will update with each chapter. (/globherman/you-ve-ripped-your-stitches)
> 
> So, if you've never had gnocchi, go have some. Fabulous. And it's really not all that hard to make, once you've done it one or two times. First time can indeed be a disaster.
> 
> You ever have some sort of facial expression or gesture in mind, but you don't know how to describe it so you sit and do it yourself in an attempt to figure out the proper descriptors? Just wondering, because sometimes I feel a little silly sitting alone in a room making faces.
> 
> Coming soon: another chapter that i don't have a title for haha i knew that the whole next chapter title thing was a bad idea hahaha oh well


	9. The Museum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Ms. Croft is just in… here?” You don’t recognize the voice. “How strange. I don’t recall her leaving.”
> 
> Another voice. “Oh.” That voice you recognize. You’d recognize it anywhere. “Okay, so this is maybe a weird question right now, but are there any windows in this area?”

In your haste to disentangle yourself from Sam and stand up, you get caught on one of her arms and end up slowly rolling to the floor instead. Normally, you'd probably find this pretty entertaining, and you'd still be on the floor laughing at yourself, Sam probably flopping off the couch to join you. But this isn't normal, and you're panicking. You immediately spring back up to your feet to back away from the sofa, and consequently, Sam.

"Lara! Woah! What?" Sam is still on the sofa and she's staring at you with wide eyes. "What are you- come back over here with me?"

While your brain is racing, she's weirdly calm, which is even more alarming. You're about to respond when you have to stop for a moment and close your eyes. Maybe it's because you crashed to the ground (it isn't), but you're feeling a little dizzy. You open your eyes, blink a few times, and stay where you are. Sam looks super confused for some reason. "Lara? Are you okay? Can you just come back over here and sit with me, please?" You step back further, until you hit the wall.

Did you imagine the last few minutes or something? She's- she seems more concerned about you than she does about what you did. You're wary. Of what, you're not sure, but this doesn't feel right at all. "Why are you so calm?"

"Why are you so, uh, whatever you are right now?" She gestures at you. "Just… can you try to calm down a bit? I'm not even sure what… I did something wrong, what did I do?" She looks so worried, and you feel so confused. "Fuck." Her leg has started to bounce. "Fuck, I said… I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have told you that, let alone even thought it in the first place."

She's rambling like she's the one in the wrong and you're doing nothing but standing and staring dumbly at her. " _Sam!_ " Her name comes out louder than you intended and almost startles you as much as it does her. It does the job though, and she's quiet now. "Alright, I'm not really sure what's going on right now. Did I- are we talking about two different things? Because, Sam,  _I'm sorry_. I'm the one that should be sorry, and I am. I'm so, so, sorry." She's not arguing that with you, but she  _is_  giving you a somewhat skeptical look. "Sam, please, I really am sorry. You have to believe me,  _please_."

"I do believe you. You're, well, you're pretty convincing right now. But sweetie, what are you sorry about? I mean, yeah, when I'm half asleep is probably not the best time to have a heart to heart, and yeah, you probably shouldn't have dumped all the responsibility on me, and yeah, we should talk about that, but I never asked for your help. So don't apologize for not helping, because that's all on me." You're staring straight at her "hey Lara you're kinda messed up" look now. "You need to stop apologizing for things that aren't your fault. We should probably get to that at one point too…"

Is she being serious? Would she lie about this? You don't know. You don't know, because what if she's afraid of 'fucking this up' and is lying to you in an attempt to keep from fucking up. Maybe you should have told her that you'd always rather hear the truth than a lie, even if the truth sucks. "You said you were worried about messing up. You told me that you were scared you might say the wrong thing. But Sam, I'd rather you tell me the truth than lie to me. Lying to me is most likely always going to be the wrong thing." You probably could have sent the message a little more delicately.

She takes a deep breath, and you notice that she's shaking slightly. " _I'm not lying!_ Why would I lie about this?" Her legs are up on the sofa now, and she's hugging them to her. Regardless, the leg that had started bobbing is still tapping rapidly. "Oh god, Lara, please, you have to believe  _me_  now. I don't understand why you think," Watching her, it's obvious that she's starting to freak out now too. Maybe she isn't lying? "Why do you think I'm lying to you?"

" _Because I fucking took advantage of you!_ " It comes out  _loud_  and you really don't want this to turn into a yelling match, so you will yourself to quiet down as much as possible. "And  _you're_  apologizing to  _me_? You were- you were half asleep, you were in no position to have that sort of conversation, yet I didn't stop you, did I? I encouraged you! I didn't know, I still don't know, how aware you were of what you were saying!" Suddenly, you've run out of steam, like that admission took all your energy. You slide down the wall until you hit the floor. You barely get the final bit out. "It's not like I didn't even think about it either. I did, and I said screw it. Because I had already messed up enough that day and I didn't think I could do any worse. But I did."

From where you're sitting on the ground, you can't see past most of the furniture to Sam. She's quiet, and you can't see her. You have no way to judge what she's thinking, but you don't have the energy to move from where you are, at the moment. However, she once again appears in front of you without you even noticing that she's moved. She's reaching down to help you stand. You don't want to and you don't take her hand, opting to stare at her shins instead.

Sam's shins turn into her face as she drops down to join you on the floor. Her legs are crossed in front of her, and when she leans forward to get a little closer, she braces herself with a hand on your leg. You shake it away. Her face is a cocktail of emotions that you're too tired to separate.

"Oh, sweetie. I- it's not like you… Lara, no. Listen." With her legs crossed, she can't really bounce them nervously, but the way she's chewing on her lip gives her away instead. "Let's… how about we try talking  _to_  each other, instead of  _at_  each other. Y'know, like the adults that we are." She taps her fingers against the ground and looks deep in thought. "We  _are_  adults, right? I'm not sure sometimes." That succeeds in tricking you into smiling for a second.

"It sure is hard to tell with us sometimes, isn't it?"

For a second, she looks as tired as you feel. "Yeah. I'm sorry. I was just… scared again. So let's take a minute or two to cool down, and then have a proper, rational conversation. Does that work for you?"

You nod, and the two of you stay on the floor, silent, neither of you seeming to know what to look at. You don't wait very long (probably not long enough) before you decide to finally look at  _her_. "Yeah?"

"If you are, I am." You give her the thumbs up. "Alright, I'll shut up right away, because instead of listening to you, I've just been going on about something that isn't the current problem. I don't think. But clearly this isn't about me. Well, it kinda is. Uh, I should probably let you talk, shouldn't I?" When she pauses, her eyes drop to the floor. She silently stares at is for so long that you''re about to start when she follows up, "Actually, wait, it is sorta my fault I guess, just not how I thought?" You  _glare_ at her. If looks could kill… "Ugh, sorry, I'll get over myself and actually shut up, you go ahead and tell me what's wrong while I listen to you."

"You don't know?" You're  _so_  confused, and you rub at your temples. "Right, are you missing the part where I completely invaded your privacy?" She scoffs, though you're not sure why. "You want to know what's upsetting me, yeah? The fact that you aren't upset. Why the hell are you not upset with me, Sam?"

"Okay, well, number one, I kinda just wished memory loss upon you, so…" When you don't respond to that (because it's  _not the damn point_ ), she continues mumbling to the floor. "And actually I  _am_  a little upset now, I mean, not with you specifically, but this," She waves her arms, indicating the general vicinity, "is a little upsetting." Your head hits the wall with a light thud when you drop it back to watch the ceiling. She looks up when she hears the thud. "Okay! Okay."

You smile feebly at her. "The problem here is that you respected the fact that I wouldn't talk for far longer than you probably should've. Then I decide I'm ready to go, and before I even start, I'm spending the night completely disregarding  _your_  privacy. I know you're scared you're going to do something wrong, but you can relax, okay? I've already done something wrong and whatever you end up saying to me, I probably have it coming."

She scoots across the floor so she's sitting beside you and, mimicking you, her head thumps against the wall shortly after. "Yes, Lara. You should not have done that. You should have stopped me and forced me back to sleep. You should have then waited until the morning, probably foregoing your own sleep as a result. You are a horrible sub-human creature." Her head pivots against the wall until she's facing you enough that she can give you a bored look. "Is that what you wanted to hear?"

Your eyes roll on their own volition. "You're very funny. I realize I just told you to relax, but could you try and be serious while being relaxed please?"

"Well, I'm being serious when I'm telling you that it's okay." A refute is on your tongue, but before you can even open your mouth, she's carrying on, copying your accent. "No, Sam, it really isn't." A quick switch back to her normal voice. "Right?" Your response is to turn your eyes back up to the ceiling. "Sweetie, I'm sorry, but please just hear me out. I think we both have to accept that our… problems are probably warping our realities a bit. Especially when we're trying to see from each other's perspective." She tugs against your arm so you slide a bit and slump into her. "I know I've just spent a bunch of time not really trying to see your side of this, but I'm going to hypocritical here anyway and ask you to try not to interrupt and to just listen to me." Her arm snakes between you and the wall and she's pulling you closer to her again.

You give yourself your permission to relax and shift around a bit until you're more comfortably nestled against her. Despite her fears that she's going to scare you off, she's about the only person on the planet who can calm you down like this. "I'll give it a try."

"Thank you. So first, and somewhat unrelated; do you think you could try to freak out on the couch or bed or anywhere that's slightly more comfy next time?" Your arm limply flies up in her face as you salute her with two fingers. She chuckles and swats it away. "Good, I'm glad we've calmed down enough now that we're able to made rude gestures.

"Anyway, what you aren't getting- and this is my fault for babbling at you instead of explaining- the thing that you don't see is that it was never some high level national secret that I wasn't really… that I  _don't_  really enjoy having to deal with all this publicity shit. And before you like, ungracefully ninja yourself away from me again, let me restate that it is all on me for accepting the… well, the burden without asking for any help." The way you're tucked against her, you can't really see much of her from her biceps up, but you feel her looking down at you. "Not. Your. Fault. Okay? So, I know I said no talking, but can you just confirm that back to me?"

You're not completely sold on that yet, but you try to sound sure about it. "It's. Um, it isn't my fault?" Not the most solid statement you've ever made.

Sam rolls with it though. "Great! Good to clear that up right away." She bends down a little and whispers, "We'll work on sounding convincing later." Somehow she's turned this nightmare into something that, while still doesn't resemble fun, is now at least tolerable. You couldn't love her more than you do right now. "Eh, we'll measure that later, now isn't really the best time to compare. I love you too, though." As she leans to plant a quick kiss on your forehead, your brain catches up and you make a note to seriously work on keeping your thoughts inside your head.

"Moving on, because it wasn't this super duper secret, in my opinion at least, I never really meant to keep it hidden from you. It just… happened, I guess. I mean, yeah, I was hiding some of it away in an attempt to not upset you. And yeah, we know we weren't really communicating then, and, uh," As she stammers, her foot starts to sway back and forth. "You, uh, well you did maybe tell me that you sorta weren't really all that… hm, you weren't really…"

"Sam."

"Sorry, sorry. So, you told me that you weren't really spending much time thinking about how I was feeling." After a pause, her words start to pick up speed. "Which is a-okay! It's all good! Don't you worry about that, I am totally okay with it! Perfectly okay, not at all anything to feel bad about!"

" _Sam._ "

Her swaying foot is stilled when she drops her other foot on top of it. "'Kay, got it, you're fine, it's fine. But yes, never really meant to hide it. In fact, when I'm out of the house, some people have actually commented on it, which is super fun to defuse. But I digress. Basically, I didn't mean to hide it away at all. Uh, well maybe the part about how my job is to protect you probably could have been left out, that's probably a  _little_  exaggerated."

You break your promise of silence and momentarily pull away from her to tell her, "But that is what you were doing. You realize that, right?"

"Whatever you say, Lois. Just be sure to call me Clark from now on." If you hadn't promised to not interrupt, you'd elaborate. Instead, you grumble at her and return to your comfortable snuggle. "Do you see where I'm going with this though? You didn't 'take advantage' of me by, I don't know what you think you did, but you didn't like, coerce me into telling you nuclear launch codes. I'm not upset because it wasn't a secret to me, and because it wasn't a secret to me, I guess I didn't notice that it  _was_  a secret to you. And," She shrugs. "And yeah, it probably should have been a daytime talk, but it's not like we can go back and change it, so it was what it was. It wasn't a big deal to me, so I didn't react how you thought I would. You never brought it up, and I guess I just thought we were all good?"

One thing still doesn't add up. "Then why did you want me to forget?"

"Oh, god. I'm  _so_  sorry about that. When I say that I thought we were all good, I'm reverting back to conceal don't feel mode. Nothing said? No problem! I think what actually happened was that I kinda subconsciously knew you were upset about the whole thing when you didn't bring it up, and when I was ignoring that, it was just easier to assume you didn't remember it. Plus the whole going overboard about the protecting you bit like I'm some sort of superhero  _was_  a little embarrassing."

"I don't think you get the significance of what you've been doing for me though, Clark." It doesn't look like she knows how sincere you're being. "I'm serious, Sam. Thank you. You could have, at any time, pissed off and left me to deal with everything, but you didn't. You stepped up for me, while I've been sitting here moping."

"You make it sound like I was enabling this," Her hand points back and forth between the two of you and then at the TV and sofa before she drops it limply into her lap. "This."

You nudge her with your head. "Come on, you know that's not true. You saw what happened when I tried to do that interview, you saw- you can still see the sofa. I wasn't, I'm probably still not even close to okay about everything we've been through." You hear her sigh slightly before you feel her rest her head on yours. "Sam, I needed you even more than I thought I did, and you stuck around to save me. No, you stuck around, dealt with my crap  _while waiting_  to save me. I didn't even let you try most of the time."

"You act like you're the only one with baggage, which is almost adorable, really. You've been putting up with me too, I just don't think you've realized it yet. There's also that thing where you saved my soul and then carried me down a mountain. With a hole in your side, among other things." You scratch at the wound as you listen. "I gotta repay you for that somehow."

"Sam, that's not…"

You don't get a chance to finish. A hand flies up to cover your mouth. "Shush. I know. And I wish you knew that I'm never serious when I say that. Not that I should be joking about that, which I apologize for. Everybody needs help sometimes, and I'm not doing this out of some fucked up sense of obligation." Her hand pulls away from your mouth. "I'm doing this because I love you, you giant dork."

You can't help the smile that creeps onto your face. You'll never tire of hearing that. "Fine. I love you too, my noble hero."

"Stop it with that."

" _You_  started it."

"Be great if  _you_  stopped it."

Not too concerned about moving, you stay on the floor until it starts to take a toll on you. Eventually you roll your way out from under Sam's arm and end up laying on your back a few feet away. "Sorry I messed up the evening."

"Don't be. It sucks but we  _do_  need to get this stuff out. Would be great to pencil it in on our day planners, but this shit probably isn't always going to hit the fan at the most opportune times." She's ended up sitting behind you and her upside down face comes into your view. "And like I said, it's not all your fault. I probably should have taken my glasses off at one point. I think they might have accidentally ended up being too good of a disguise."

You motion at her to come closer, like you want to maybe whisper something in her ear. Which really makes no sense at this point, but she leans forward anyway. When she's close enough, you reach up and yank her shirt to pull her closer, and she barely catches herself from face planting into you herself before you awkwardly kiss her.

"Peter Parker wears glasses normally though, doesn't he? Maybe you needed to unmask instead."

" _Stop._ "

Your opportunity for any continued remarks is taken away when she kisses you again. As she sits back she goes out of your sight. You're smiling at the ceiling just like the dork that she says you are. "Jesus, that's weird. Does not work as well as advertised. I mean, would you get all swoony if a dude in a probably gross and sweaty mask randomly appeared in front of you and kissed you all upside down like that?"

"Come on, Sam, you know I only swoon for you."

"Rhetorical, Mary Jane."

You make a face. "Right. We do need to stop."

The next time she's in your line of sight, she's in front of you. "Sometimes I regret introducing you to mass media." She extends her hand down and waggles her fingers at you. You waggle your yours back before taking the hand up. When you're up, she's the one yanking you forward. "Can we retcon those kisses?"

In the morning, when you wake up, you walk into the kitchen to find Sam eating a toaster strudel that you assume was snuck into your purchases the day before.

"You weren't awake to cook anything." She's not looked up from the newspaper she's examining. "And I just can't handle the idea of eating any toast for the next while." When you don't respond, she finally drops the paper to look at you. You've also been examining the paper, from a distance, and you don't look away from it fast enough for her to not notice. She seems to know what you're thinking. "Lara, I already told you. It's starting to blow over already. We all kept enough of the fucked up stuff hidden, and most people are starting to lose interest in the plain old boring story of the discovery of an island." You're opening your mouth to respond when crumbs fly in your direction as Sam waves her strudel at you. You take it as a signal to stay quiet. "I swear, the main people that are still interested are scholarly farts…" She points at you again, strudel still in hand. "No offence." You barely have a chance to roll your eyes at her before she carries on. "The only people that are still super gung-ho about this are the scholars and the tabloids, and all the tabloids give a shit about is spinning a crazy cult story. Which, I mean, wouldn't be inaccurate. But we don't really want all that much about Mathias out there, right? Even if it's just all contained to trashy magazines that still print Elvis theories."

Her foot is tapping ever so slightly under the table. "Or Himiko?" You see the foot tapping increase in speed.

"Uh, yeah. Her too." The toaster strudel suddenly becomes very interesting to Sam. As you watch her go silent to take very calculated bites, you decide to let this Himiko thing drop, if only because she has to go back to dealing with your publicity rubbish today.

"Alright." By the time you respond, she's finished the strudel and has no choice to focus back on you. "Well, I know you have some meeting or something today." You can see her relax when she figures out that you aren't going to push anything. You, on the other hand, feel slightly dizzy as you muster up the courage to ask, "Did you maybe want me to come with you?" You're pretty sure that you aren't going to topple over at the thought of doing so, but you shuffle over to plop yourself down in a chair at the table with Sam.

She quietly watches you for an unnerving length of time before responding, "Okay, sweetie, I know you feel bad that I'm the one that's been taking the brunt of the work." Her hand reaches out for the strudel that's no longer on her plate, and ends up knocking against the table instead. "But when I said it's my job, I wasn't really exaggerating all that much. Like, yeah, people do still want to get some interviews out of you, but I'm actually juggling everything else about as well as I can." You feel that she's trying to tell you that she can keep doing what she's doing without having a nervous breakdown. You don't know if she's implying the opposite about you. "There is, uh…" You can  _hear_  her foot bouncing against the floor.

"Sam, please just-"

"Okay, yeah, I'll- yeah. If you  _do_  want to work on something, you could maybe head over to the museum to start working with all that stuff you somehow managed to haul back with us." There's silence looming over the two of you as you try to run the concept through your head. "I'm not saying you have to, but it sounds like you want to help. Having a catalog of what you found would help me. But if you'd rather wait so I can come with you…"

The concerned way she's looking at you reminds you why you love her, but it also hurts. The fact that the concept of you leaving the house alone is so worrying is almost embarrassing. "No, no. That actually sounds like a pretty good idea." You're lying through your teeth as, unfortunately, the concept of you leaving the house by yourself  _is_  actually making you feel lightheaded again. "Yeah, I'll give them a call and let them know I'll be showing up."

That earns you a nervous smile from Sam, and you do your best to smile back. Shortly after, as you're getting out of your chair to make yourself a quick breakfast before you call (you  _do_  need to eat, you aren't delaying), you hear the now familiar noise of nervous finger tapping. You look over your shoulder at Sam, who looks like she's trying to decide whether to say something or not. When she sees that you've seen her, her decision is made for her. "So, Lara. We're throwing the word 'job' around a lot, here." She's alternating between tapping the table and knocking it now. "But, the thing is, this  _is_  going to blow over. And we're going to need to get actual jobs. Have enough money to get by somehow. I guess there's always- or you… It doesn't matter if we, as long as we have enough to- I don't know. I'm just not sure if…"

Instead of finishing her thoughts, she glances away from you and down at the floor instead. You know what she's trying to say, though. You ignore it, and abort breakfast. "I should go take a shower. Get ready for the day."

She's still staring at the floor when she quietly replies, "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you should." You hesitate for a second, but only a second, and you give her a quick kiss on the top of her head as you pass her.

Moments later, you're halfway to the washroom but her tired sigh is loud enough that you can still hear it.

Before Yamatai, it would be quite rare for you to take a cab. But neither you nor Sam ever bothered to fix the fact that the two of you share one car, one car which she's taken today. Which is fair enough because she actually has somewhere that she  _needs_  to be while you're just floundering about in an attempt to become a useful member of society again. Still, that left you with the dilemma of figuring out your own transportation. Remembering the way you zoned out in front of the furniture store, and knowing that Sam won't be around to be your anchor led you to your current motto of "the fewer, the better" when it comes to people. Which probably isn't healthy, but neither is attacking a stranger. You're honestly not sure how close you were to actually losing control, but the idea of it happening scares the hell out of you, for multiple reasons.

You make it to the museum without any incidents. However, you don't make it inside without your signature parking lot vacant stare. The hood that you reach for isn't there, as you figured you should wear something nicer. Not that the long sleeved tee that you've got on is much fancier. But it isn't stained, and it also covers up your arms. You couldn't bring yourself to step out the door without concealing as many scars and wounds as possible.

When you finish up with your vacant staring, you push away the urge to survey the people surrounding you and half walk, half jog your way into the building. You find the reception area, identify yourself, and suddenly you're being led to a room where the museum has been graciously storing everything you brought back. A few instructions are relayed to you, and then you're all alone in a room full of haunting memories. You do your best to assure yourself that you can do this, and pick somewhere to start.

A few items made of jade are grouped together, and a horse statue is staring up at you. You pick it up to examine it closer and try to focus on determining it's age when you hear a loud noise almost like an explosion and you look up to see exactly what the noise was and from where you're standing on a shabby roof you can see a fire raging not all that far from you and when you see it you suddenly become aware of the screaming coming from that direction and when you instinctively take a step back you stumble over a body at your feet and the horse that was in your hand isn't a horse it's a bow and you're aiming the bow and when you let go of the flaming arrow another explosion sounds along with more screaming and you don't even remember how or why you got back to the shanty town and your breathing is shaky as you crouch down to drop your bow for a moment to think and… you're in a bright, clean room surrounded by nothing but old relics.

Since you're already crouching, you kick your legs out from under you. You land on the floor only slightly more delicately than the horse did. You glance over at it quickly to make sure it's still as intact as it was when you picked it up, and when you decide that it is, you slump forward and stare at the ground. What the hell was that? Unpleasant, for one. You stay where you are on the floor and attempt to regain some composure. Nobody comes barging into the room, which helps you convince yourself that there aren't any security cameras recording you. That's the last thing you need.

After heaving yourself back up to your feet, you pick up the horse and deposit it back where you had taken it from, as quickly as you can. Your hand hovers over a jade drinking vessel of some sort before you decide to try a different group of items. To your left, there's another grouping, one of them being a rabbit stuffie. Seeing it causes you to inhale sharply and you move on immediately. You have no idea what possessed you to bring that back with you, but you know you don't want to think about the implications of why it was abandoned when you found it. The next group of items is a simple layout of numerous coins. After a quick look to evaluate what's all there, you decide to take a look at a Japanese 2 sen coin.

You didn't make any other plans for the day, did you? No, surely not, that wouldn't make any sense. Still, you have this strange feeling that you're keeping somebody waiting. Absently, you flip the coin over in your hand as you pause to think about it. You come up with nothing, and go back to examining the fine details of the coin even with the nagging thought still in the back of your mind. It looks like it's from the late 1800's and hold on, you're supposed to meet Alex somewhere, aren't you? You're tapping the coin against your palm as you try to remember. Where were you meant to be meeting, again? You can't- you're just going to have to find him somehow. You're going to go find him. You can't leave him behind. Behind? Where is it that you're going that you'd be leaving him behind? He's… gunshots? You hear gunshots again. What the hell is going on? You go to check the first door you see, and find out that you don't need to go far to find Alex. But there's also a layer of water covering the floor, you see some sparks up near the ceiling, Alex is on the ground with a bunch of rubble and you slam the door shut again. You look around the room that  _you're_  in, and there's no water leaks or electrical issues that you can see. The coin you're clutching onto is digging into the flesh of your palm, but you don't notice it when you open the door again to see Alex still on the floor of the room that suddenly seems exceptionally decrepit. Sparks are indeed flying from the ceiling and Alex is indeed on the floor and this time you notice a giant piece of metal pinning his leg down he's stuck there you've got to help him but when you step into the room he starts yelling at you to get out to get out to get out out out and you're feeling panicked suddenly but he's so adamant that you do get out you leave and you shut the door again and a loud explosion follows and startles you into dropping the coin that you forgot was in your hand.

It clinks as it hits the ground and you look down at it. You don't know what you expect from it, it's just a coin and all it's doing is laying on the floor. Alex is dead, though. He has been this entire time. You don't want to open the door again, but you do it anyway. This time, when you peek in, it's just a janitor's closet. It never was anything else, and Alex was never there,  _because he's fucking dead_. Dead because of you. You choke back tears, because you're a grown woman and grown women don't cry about Japanese currency. Which wouldn't be what you'd be crying about, although it would certainly look like it was if somebody walked in. Why is this happening? You gently push the coin along the floor with your foot, until it's close enough to the table it had been on that you only need to hold it for longer than two or three seconds to replace it. You don't understand this. You don't deserve… you don't  _think_  you deserve this.

 _If_  somebody is watching footage from a security camera that  _is_  actually somewhere in the room, they probably think you're crazy by this point. You aren't sure you'd disagree with them. You rest your hands on the table and lean forward, trying to catch your breath. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea.

But you need to do this. So you move on to some another group, one as far away as possible from the pile of coins, as if that'll help somehow. Your hand hesitates and hovers over a badge that's laid out among various other items. There's so much stuff here. How did you manage to bring all of this along with you? There's a few things you don't even recognize. But thinking about that is not what you're here for, and you pick up the badge. Some kanji that's lightly scratched into the back of it catches your attention, and you run your thumb over it to see if you can feel the etching at all. You don't feel the etching, but you see a few sparks jump from the top of the badge… no, the lighter, as it flickers on. In your peripheral vision you can see a large fire, and you smell gasoline. You look around, and other than the tanker that's burning next to you, you seem to be alone. You choose to simply stand where you are, and flick the lighter on and off a few more times. The fourth time it lights, a small plane comes into your vision. You feel like that's something you should be excited about, but something else tells you that you need to move. Despite the warning, you wave your arms above your head, trying to get the attention of the plane. There's a flash of lightening and you watch in horror as it hits the plane which is now flying right towards you it's not slowing down you're frozen with your arms still in the air and time is slowing down as the plane is flying  _directly_  towards you down towards you even it's heading towards you and down and maybe it's even speeding up and you need to move you need to get out of there but. You don't. The plane is speeding towards you and you just watch. And wait. It gets closer and closer and just when you think it can't get any closer, everything goes black. Everything stays black until you feel a sharp poke in your thumb. The world comes back into vision, and then into colour, and you see a small amount of red colour your thumb from where the pin of the badge stabbed you.

You are, of course, still in the museum. You aren't even all that surprised about that this time. What's bothering you is what just happened. What just didn't happen. It wasn't- not that you're eager to remember- but it was most definitely not what you remember actually occurring. Why did it go that way? Your chest feels tight. You can't do this. The badge is gently tossed back to where it came from. You need to get out of here or something. Just get away from these things. Breathing is more difficult than you remember it being, and you don't want to look at any of this any longer. Your hand is turning the doorknob when you realize that you're going to have to talk to people and maybe explain to them why you're leaving and that idea is exceptionally unappealing. Maybe you could make it to the washroom without anybody seeing you? It worked for Sam…

You really, really don't want to take the chance of running into anybody though. You don't know if you could even hold a conversation right now. Turning around, you see the closet that Alex isn't in. You'd rather not be in it either, especially after what you saw in there, but it seems to be the only option left. Everything goes dark again, for an entirely different reason, when you pull the door closed behind you. There's not much else to do other than sit in the darkness. So you do just that.

Later, still in the darkness, you hear a door open, and somebody speaking. "Ms. Croft is just in… here?" You don't recognize the voice. "How strange. I don't recall her leaving."

Another voice. "Oh."  _That_  voice you recognize. You'd recognize it anywhere. "Okay, so this is maybe a weird question right now, but are there any windows in this area?"

The unknown voice sounds confused. "Uh, not that I can think of. I'll go check with reception to see if they know if she's gone anywhere."

"Thanks." One set of footsteps get quieter as they move further and further away from where you are. Another set step closer to you, and then the room goes silent again. A minute later, you hear a quiet "oh", and then the footsteps that stayed in the room get louder until they stop right in front of you. The light that spills in when the closet door opens is far too bright, and you have to squint while you adjust to it.

Sam's outline drops down to mirror you on the floor, and around the time your eyes fully adjust, she's reaching towards you to pry the exacto knife you found on a shelf out of your hand. You let her take it, she's the only person you know would never try to hurt you. "Lara." You don't respond. Other than letting go of the knife, you don't even move. She slowly inches towards you, and when you continue to not move, she squishes herself beside you as well as she can in the cramped space of the closet. You feel an arm wrap around you, and it tries to pull you closer to her. You still don't move. You'd like to, maybe. She sighs as she forces your hand open just enough to fit hers in, and settles for leaning against you. "Oh, Lara." Her hand squeezes yours. "We're gonna be okay again, one day. We'll be okay."

* * *

_i've been fucking around while you've been saving the world, from nothing_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See also: Four-Color Love Story.
> 
> first of all yes i know the spider bite fixed peter's vision and he doesn't actually wear glasses most of the time but just go with it ok
> 
> Besides the fact that they allowed me to make the superhero jokes, I feel that these lyrics are pretty apt, the first part being Lara's thinking, from nothing added on from Sam's opinion. The rest of the song isn't the most fitting of all the songs I've picked, but whatever.
> 
> I wrote the first half like three times and it went three different ways and then I just smushed them all together and I'm not sure it's coherent, so there's that.
> 
> And I almost split this into two chapters but in the end I decided not to because other than the fact that they'd end up being kinda short, it would also remove the contrast of the two scenes of Sam trying to calm Lara down. And I feel like there's something to compare there?
> 
> Next chahahahahahhah hah haha ha


	10. The Coin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Your voice is cracking, you’re failing to control it. “I saw it and I stopped. To look at it. To calm down. To have that moment of normal? To pretend everything wasn’t going to hell. I stopped and looked at it for a minute or two.”

Somehow, you don’t completely remember it happening, but somehow Sam got you up and on your feet before the museum attendant returned with the news that he had no idea where you had gone. When he saw that you had suddenly materialized in the room, Sam pinched you, and you coughed a weak “hello” at him. Sam then carried on to cover the rest with some story of how you had been ill a few days ago and had misjudged your recovery and that you had just been in the washroom for slightly longer than normal. Then she hurriedly thanked him and dragged you, quite literally, out of the museum. Outside, she shoved you forward towards the car, and then into it. Now, you’re fumbling with your seat beat while she silently watches you.

“I’m sorry, I just wanted to get you out of there.” She reaches over and clicks the the belt into place for you. “I don’t know what happened, but you looked like you needed to get out.” You start rubbing at your temples. You didn’t realize you had such a bad headache. “You know I wouldn’t push you around like that if I didn’t think I needed to?”

“S’okay.” You’d rather not slur your words, but your brain and tongue have other ideas. “Y’did the right thing.”

Sam’s not used to you slurring, either. That, combined with how she just found you, is causing her to stare at you with _that_ damn look on her face. “God, Lara, what happened in there?”

You drop your face into your hands, rubbing your forehead with the heels of your palms. “Home first.” While it seems that your words are gone, your manners are still intact. “Please.” It’s a good thing you keep your head down, because the way she’s breaking the speed limit combined with her inability to keep her eyes on the road would throw your brain into overload again.

When you do get home, she ushers you through the door in a similar manner to the way she rescued you from the museum, although you’re able to keep your feet from dragging this time. She lets you collapse onto your bed and instinctively, you curl into yourself. You feel Sam drop onto the bed beside you, but you stay curled. “How’d you find me?”

She doesn’t reply immediately, and the bed dips as she shuffles around. “Did you… not want me to?”

“No, no. S’good you did. Thanks. How?” You’ve been inarticulate before, but this is so far beyond any of those times that it’s starting to get sort of weird.

You still can’t see much other than the bedsheets, a pillow, and parts of your arms and legs, but you don’t need to see Sam to know she’s thinking the same thing. Her tone betrays her. “Ohhh-kay. Well, first of all, I obviously started to worry when you didn’t answer your phone around the seventeenth time. Then I worried a little more when you weren’t home for supper.”

“Hm?”

“I mean, you said you planned on doing a bit of work, but I didn’t think you’d be going for a full day, let alone put in any overtime.” You’re jostled as the mattress shifts around, along with Sam, again.

Your brain is not at all at full capacity, and you’re still very confused. “Yeah. But supper?”

“I know, I know, we have the furthest thing from an actual schedule when it comes to food, but most of the time we usually have at least a _plan_ for food by seven.”

“It’s when?” You really should have caught on by now.

Again, Sam takes her time before responding. When she does, her voice is low. “Lara… do you- how long were you sitting in that closet?”

It would be nice if you could stop your voice from trembling. “Dunno.” You try to remember if you ever looked at a clock. “Couldn’ta been there more than two hours before I hadta go in there. Really didn't want to, but where else?” 

She takes a deep breath. “Oh boy. Well, you were in there for a long time, then. Shit. Uh, do you maybe want some food or something? I, uh, I assume you didn’t have lunch in there.”

She’s right, but you don’t have an appetite at all right now. “No. Later, maybe.” An answer to a question that was lingering suddenly occurs to you with the revelation of how long you had disappeared for. “Guess there wasn’t a security camera in there after all.”

“Huh?”

It’s not really the most pressing matter right now. Or at all. “No. It’s nothing, never mind.”

“Alright.” Again, she pauses for a long time. You’re getting the impression that she doesn’t know how to go about this. Which, admittedly, isn’t that unusual. Still, you don’t blame her. “Do you think you can tell me what happened?”

You’d rather not even think about it. But you’ve promised her that you’d stop hiding. You temporarily uncurl so you can look at her as you force yourself to tell her, “I can try.” You attempt to relax yourself enough to keep from going back to full-out foetal position. You end up with a slightly increased view of your surroundings.

“‘Kay. Take your time.” You have enough of a view that you see Sam catch herself before she reaches over towards you. She hesitates. “Is it okay if I-“

“Please.”

Almost immediately, Sam is wrapping you up in her arms. It’s not the smoothest transition due to your current position, and you loosen yourself enough that you’re now closer to resembling an oval than a ball. You don’t like that she asked if this was okay. The only other time she’s asked, in that manner, before snuggling, comforting, or even just touching you, was the same day that she started her loud entrance routine. And the day after. “Sam? I didn’t?” You _really_ don’t recall how she got you out of that closet. “When you found me, and got me standing up and all that. Did I? I didn’t do anything to-“

“No. What? Of course you didn’t.”

“Are you sure? I don’t really remember exactly what happened…”

“Listen.” Pointlessly, she pulls her arm back to brush your hair from your face. Because of how you’re laying, it all falls back down into your eyes immediately. “The only thing that you did was scare me, and that was only because of the way you were so unresponsive that I had to literally drag you around. I know where you’re going. I asked just now because I’ve never seen you like this before. You’ve had bad moments, but this is, uh, different. I wanted to make sure I wasn’t overstepping.”

“Okay.” You tuck your head under her chin.

“I swear I’m not lying.” You make an agreeable noise. “Now, are you sure you’re alright to tell me about this right now? Because you really don’t seem…”

She’s given you an out. But putting things off and promising to do them later is almost as bad as flat out ignoring them. “If I don’t now, I won’t. Or it’ll be ten times harder when I do.”

“If you’re sure.”

“I am. And I think my grammar is starting to come back. Bear with me.”

She chuckles. “Yes, because correct grammar is of the utmost importance right now. Also, you’re telling this to _me_?”

“Point taken.” You try to start, but the only noise you make is a strangled sound. Your inability to get started makes you grumble.

“Hey. It’s fine.” She leans back enough to be able to look you in the eyes. “Take your time. I’m here all night.”

The bedsheets rub against your cheek when you nod at her. She envelopes you again, and you try to relax into her a little more. You _could_ use a few minutes to figure out how to start.

A few minutes turn into half an hour. Frustrating as it was, not knowing what to say, that downtime was needed while you calmed down. “Everything that was in there was from Yamatai.”

Sam shuffles around briefly when she hears you finally start. “I know. You’re good?”

You could laugh. “Yeah, I don’t think so. But I’m ready to tell you what went on at the museum. Probably.”

“Well, in that case, I’m ready to listen.”

You take a deep breath, and then allow the words to spill out. “See, the problem with all of that stuff being from Yamatai is that it all made me think of Yamatai. And we’ve already figured out that when I think about Yamatai I-“

She fills in for you, “Panic.”

“Basically. Except this went further than panic. Probably because I was looking at and… holding things that I apparently very distinctively remember collecting. But it feels like I remember too much.” You’re not sure that ‘remember’ is a strong enough word.

“How so?”

“I don’t quite know if saying that I remember too much is the right way to put it. It’s more like… an experience than a memory. The items that I was examining, when I picked them up and looked at them closer, something clicked in my brain? It was like I remembered what was happening when I found them, and then I was there again. It was happening again.” You let silence linger as you battle with yourself over how in depth you should get with this story.

“Mm,” Sam starts mumbling. “I think I understand what you mean.”

She might be trying to tell you something, she might just be sympathizing with you. But she’s never been the type to say that she know a feeling unless she actually does. “Sam?”

“No, I’m sorry, this isn’t about me. Keep going.” You don’t. “Lara, that wasn’t what I was trying to say. I didn’t-“

Your voice is flat when you cut her off. “Right.”

“Fine. Maybe I did mean it that way. But this really isn’t about me right now, I wasn’t catatonic in a closet. Later. _I promise_.” It doesn’t feel like she’s trying to get out of it. After all, she didn’t deny it.

“I’ll hold you to that.” You still haven’t decided how much you should tell her. You could leave it there, she apparently understands. But leaving it there wouldn’t be much better than telling her nothing at all. “How much do you want to hear?”

“Is there something that I shouldn’t hear?”

_Yes_. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“Tell me however much you want, Lara. If you say anything that I, for whatever reason, don’t want to hear the rest of, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, as much of it as you want.” She slings a leg over yours, which are still partially pulled up towards you. It’s strange, just how much safer you feel when she’s with you.

“There were a lot of things in there. I randomly choose, really, and picked up a little jade statue. It was in the shanty town when I found it, I think. It must have been, because when I was holding it, I wasn’t holding it.” How do you explain? And do you tell her what you did? You’ve still not ever gone into much detail of what you had to do to survive, and she wasn’t around to see much of it. She’s not looked at the camera either. Neither have you. You have no idea what it might have accidentally recorded.

“I’m not sure what that means. And you were carrying _statues_ around with you?”

“ _It was small, Sam._ And, I don’t know, finding that stuff made everything feel normal, like how the trip was supposed to go. Even if it was only for the few minutes I could take to stop and look. But yeah, I brought it back and when I picked it up again, I was standing on a tin roof. There was fire. Solarii. I had to- the statue wasn’t a statue anymore. It was like I had my bow in my hands again. I had to do it all over again. The Solarii, they were… coming for me, and I didn’t know what was happening. But I had my bow…”

She has a general idea of what you did. She _knows_ that you’ve killed. She just doesn’t know any fine details.

“Lara? You okay?”

It shouldn’t be so hard to tell her, you think. She knows you had to do it, she understands. The problem, though, the problem is what if she doesn’t? “I don’t want to tell you what I did.”

“Then don’t. If you aren’t comfortable with it, you don’t have to. However, I will say that I’m pretty sure that I know what you did. If that makes you feel any better.”

It does almost the exact opposite. You don’t manage more than a whisper, “But you don’t know how.”

“Nope. I don’t. I don’t have to, if you don’t want me to. The thing is, I think you’re going to have to tell someone, eventually. I don’t think you can keep it all locked away, I think that if you do try to, it’ll start eating away at you. I don’t want to watch that happen to you. And yeah, I’m here for you, 24/7, but it doesn’t have to be me that you tell, that’s your choice.” It really isn’t too much, this time. Tame, in comparison. You’re still hesitant though. “Before you make that choice though, I want you to know that nothing you say is going to make me judge you. Nothing is going to make me be disgusted by you. Nothing could ever make me hate you. There is _nothing_ you can tell me that will change the fact that I love you.”

She says leaves it at that, and patiently waits for you to carry on however you want to. You’re scared to tell her all of the things you’ve done. You’re afraid to even say any of it out loud at all. “I had these… I would light arrows on fire. And everything was so run down. There was junk all over the place. Gas cans. Barrels of fuel. Shooting them? With the lit arrows?”

“Boom?”

“…Yeah. When they didn’t instantly… if they just caught on fire?” You have to pause to steady your voice. “They’d start yelling. Screaming. There was so much screaming, Sam. Sometimes they’d beg. But it… never made a difference to me.” It’s that last bit that’s the problem. You wish you hadn’t admitted it, and don’t know why you did.

“And that all happened again?” There’s no hint of anything but understanding and acceptance in her voice. Just like she promised. No displeasure. No disgust. But overall, looking at everything you did? What you’ve told her is barely the start.

“I mean, not technically. It felt like it did. It only stopped because I was confused and after I had finished- afterwards, I set the bow down to stop and think. But it wasn’t a bow anymore. It was a little horse again.”

“Then you were back? It ended when you let go of the statue?”

It helps that you don’t have to go step by step. That she seems to catch on quick enough. “Pretty much. I was a little confused again, about where I was. But yes, I think part of it had to do with me holding the relics. I mean, everything kicked in when I picked them up. Because the next thing I picked up was a coin.”

“At least you can fit a coin into your pocket.”

“Sam, it’s not- I shouldn’t’ve… it’s not funny. I shouldn’t have this coin.”

“I know, I’m sorry.” She sounds like she truly means it. “Wait, so what’s the deal with the coin? Out of everything you took, why is it the thing that you shouldn’t have?”

The ‘What If?’ makes your stomach churn. “It’s more about where I found it. Uh, when I found it?”

“Alright…” She doesn’t get it because she doesn’t know. “So, you picked up this coin.”

“It was different. I had this funny feeling that I was supposed to meet somebody somewhere. I felt like I was keeping somebody waiting. I don’t know why I would think that,” Yes, you do. “It’s not like I made any other plans.”

“But looking at the coin made you think that you did.”

Why you bothered trying bypass that fact is beyond you. “Yeah. I thought and I thought, and then I remembered that I was supposed to meet Alex somewhere.”

“Lara…”

“But I couldn’t remember where. And I thought and I thought about that. I still couldn’t remember.”

“Lara, where did you find the coin?”

“In the end, I didn’t need to remember. Because there were gunshots. I couldn’t tell where they were coming from, and I started looking around. I opened the closet, the one you found me in? It wasn’t the closet though. It was The Endurance. It was flooded a bit,” You’re almost on autopilot. You feel like you’re watching yourself tell the story. “And it was wrecked. Found Alex there. He was trapped. Don’t know why he wouldn’t have been. Don’t know why I would have gotten there fast enough this time, it’s not like I was controlling what wa-“

“ _Lara._ ”

Autopilot switches off. You could ignore and talk over Sam when she was trying to get your attention during your short pauses, but it’s much harder when she cuts you off. You stop and wait for her to ask it again.

“Where did you find this coin? Originally, on the island. No, wait, you said it was more about the timing. When exactly did you find it?”

“I was trying to find Reyes’ tools. I saw it when I was going back to The Endurance.” Your voice is cracking, you’re failing to control it. “I saw it and I stopped. To look at it. To calm down.To have that moment of normal? To pretend everything wasn’t going to hell. I stopped and looked at it for a minute or two.”

“Okay,” Sam prompts you when she thinks that you’ve stopped the tale completely. Really, you’ve stopped to try and get your damn voice under control. You can’t, and it’s coming out at the wrong pitch when you continue.

“It was wasted time? I wasted time. I didn’t know, though. How was I supposed to know? If I hadn’t stopped, I wouldn’t have taken so long to get to the… to find him. Alex. I could have gotten there earlier.” You jam your eyes shut so the tears can’t get out. “If I hadn’t stopped, if I had gotten there quicker…”

“Lara Croft.” Sam rolls away from you and you feel the bed shift as she sits up. She’s probably staring at you, but you’re too busy trying to keep yourself together to check. “Don’t you dare. You _do not_ even think that. Please look at me while I tell you this?” You don’t move at all, but you do finally open your eyes. Everything is blurry, and you try to swallow back the tears that are imminent. Sam drops back down onto the bed again, if only to make eye contact easier. “Don’t you dare think that that was your fault. It fucking sucks, it’s fucking awful, and it shouldn’t have happened. But don’t you dare think that he died because you stopped for _two_ minutes.”

“I-“

“No. One hundred and twenty seconds, Lara. Do you honestly think that that amount of time would have changed everything? Anything? I don’t know what all happened in the ship, but from the bits and pieces I’ve caught, I think you would have needed another twenty-four hundred seconds at least. Probably more. You couldn’t have done any better. You’re listening, right?”

Instead of using words to reply, you simply give up and let yourself cry.

“Lara, I know this isn’t what you want to hear. It’s what you need to hear. You couldn’t have done it. You did so much. So much. I know you think you could have done more, but time wasn’t on your side. And that is _not your fault_. You did what you could with the time you had, and if anything, the one who _was_ wasting everybody’s tiii- Um. Huh. But you, uh. What I’m saying is that you, ah, you did everything you could. So you _do not_ blame yourself. You do not even think about blaming yourself. You can be sad. You can be angry. You can wish it didn’t happen. You can even want to blow the fucking island to bits, for what it took from us. From you. But I will not let you blame yourself for any of it.”

Somewhere along the line, you disregarded Sam’s request for you to look at her, and groped around from a pillow. When you found one, you buried your face in it and let yourself keep crying as you listened. And listening only caused you to cry harder, especially when she tripped up. You keep on crying even after Sam stops.

“Okay. Okay, okay, okay. It’s okay.” She pats her leg. “Come on, c’mere.” You don’t move. “Or stay there. That works. I can work with that.” There’s a large amount of shuffling around, and then Sam’s maneuvered herself so that your head is in her lap. She starts to gently rub your back while you try to regain your composure. “Let’s just take a moment.”

It’s not long after she goes silent that you hear her sniff a few times. She leans back, and there’s a thunk, probably her head hitting the headboard. You can feel her start to tremble.

You push yourself to talk, because it is a complete necessity right now. Because you’ve been, and continue to be, so oblivious to everything. Still, your voice continues to refuse to cooperate and everything you say sounds far shakier than you’d like. “Sam?” No response. “Sam, _you_ listen now. If none of it was my fault, then there is no way in hell that any of it was even remotely yours.” Her hand freezes on your shoulder. She’s told you numerous times that what happened wasn’t your fault, specifically, while other people have been told you that what happened was nobody’s fault. It’s small, but you should have noticed it anyway. She’s never once told you that it was nobody’s fault, only that it wasn’t _yours_. “You are absolutely not allowed to think that either.”

Silence stretches further and further and you’re about to raise your head when you hear a choked sound.

“Oh god.” She slouches a little. Her head drops, and it rests in the hand that isn’t on your back. “Oh, god, thank you.” She sniffs one more time before allowing one sob. “Thank you. Thank you.” That one sob turns into two, and after that there’s no point in keeping track. “Fuck. Lara… thank you.”

The way that she completely crumbles gets you started on crying again.

Eventually, the two of you downgrade from sobbing wrecks to snivelling messes. Then from snivelling messes to silent humanoid-shaped lumps. It’s around the vague time of humanoid-lumps that you realize that you still don’t know what the actual time is. “Sam? What time is it?”

Her voice comes out slightly scratchy. “Pretty late. Really early. You pick.”

You push yourself up, and your body lets you know that it’s upset with how long you spent awkwardly folded up. A few joints make ugly popping noises as you rearrange yourself to sit beside Sam. “Shit. I didn’t mean to keep you up all night, you have some appointments today, don’t you? Do you want to try to get a-“

“Nope. Fuck whatever I’m supposed to do today. You’re more important. I can go call and cancel stuff when the hour is slightly less ungodly.” She tips sideways and rests her head on your shoulder. “And it was worth it, I think.”

You know what she’s trying to say. “I’m sorry it took me so long to… I don’t know. To hear what you weren’t telling me, I guess.”

She laughs. “I think I can forgive you, seeing how it’s pretty impossible to hear something that I didn’t say.”

You jab her in the ribs with your elbow. “Stop it. You know what I mean.”

“Yeah, yeah. I don’t think I have to say how much I _do_ appreciate you saying that to me. Although I don’t think I’m gonna be able to shake all the guilt I feel quite that easily. But, still.”

“Hypocrite.”

Her head pops up from your shoulder, and you end up in a staring contest. It doesn’t last long though, the two of you dissolving into giggles within a minute. You try to stop, but you can’t; every time your laughter slows down, you hear Sam still snickering loudly and it makes you start all over again. By the time you’ve both stopped spurring the other on, your stomach hurts. “God, Sam, should we be laughing about this?”

She smirks at you. “What else do we have to laugh about right now?”

“Yeah, I guess you have a point there.” Your brow furrows when you fully digest her answer. “That’s really kind of depressing that one of the few things that’s been making us laugh lately is the fact that we’re barely functioning.”

“A little macabre, maybe. Thing is, if we can’t laugh about it, I think we’re fucked, y’know?” She chuckles again, but it’s much more humourless than before. “Wow, we’re on a bit of a roller coaster, aren’t we? What with the hysterical laughter following the intense crying cleanse session.” She suddenly sounds tired.

“I think you’re understating it.” You sound tired too.

She yawns. “Probably. But it did kinda interrupt you. Anything else you wanna tell me about yesterday?”

“Only if we can have a nap first.”

“I think I’ll take that deal.” The speed with which she gets the blankets up and covering you is rather impressive.

When you wake up, you stretch and roll over to see Sam staring at the ceiling, hands linked behind her head. “Good morning.”

“Is it?”

She scoffs, and keeps on staring at the ceiling. “Guess so. S’close as we’re gonna get.”

“How long have you been up?” You finally decide to actually look at a clock, yourself. It’s slightly after nine.

“Told you, I had to call to cancel stuff. But I got a few hours, so don’t worry, alright? Just didn’t feel like going back to sleep after I got off the phone, is all.”

Being told not to worry about something generally makes you worry more. “You’ve just been laying there?”

“Sure. It’s comfy. Plus I, uh, I feel safer when I’m with you. Even if you’re pretty much unconscious.” She hesitates. “And I was thinking.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Hey, I think you should have something to eat.” You can’t tell if she’s trying to steer the conversation away from whatever it was that she was thinking about or not. “You haven’t had any food in, what? Over a day?” Or maybe she was just thinking about your eating habits.

Either way, she’s right. “I’ll go find something. You want anything? I can always make a few extra pieces of toast.”

“Don’t even say that word. But yeah, I’ll just have whatever you’re having. Thanks.”

It’s surprisingly difficult to haul yourself up and out of bed, but the idea of food gives you the strength. You’re stuffing your feet into your yolked little bunnies when Sam says, “Wait.” She’s still staring at the ceiling. You sit back down beside her, and drop the bunnies back to the floor (although you have reason to get rid of them now, you’re finding that you’re actually rather fond of them). “Maybe this is stupid, or just a bad idea… Although I’m not freaking out at the thought of asking you this, so then again, maybe it isn’t. Whatever. So you’re eventually gonna have some sort of exhibit with all that stuff from Yamatai, right?”

“Probably.”

“Okay.” She pauses for so long that you think that _that_ was her question. “All of it?”

“I guess.”

“So, then. That coin.” She finally looks away from the ceiling, and meets your eyes. “I was thinking, and Lara, do you think that maybe we could… Do you maybe wanna dedicate it to him? When everything gets set up? We’re gonna end up thinking about him every time we see it anyway, aren’t we? How about we try to remember the good things, instead of…”

You wonder exactly how long she _was_ awake, staring at the ceiling. Counterproductively, you lay back down on the bed and copy her, head resting on your hands. “I think I’d like that.”

“Really?”

“Really.” Although you had intended to elaborate, you change your mind, and both of you end up looking back up to the ceiling. You stay there, in silence, for a few minutes. “Sam?” She turns her head to look at you. “You know, I think that together, we’re figuring out how to be much more than just the sum of our parts.”

“And separately, we’re kinda just a mess?

Her succinctly accurate description makes you laugh. “Probably, but I wasn’t going to say that.”

“Well, somebody has to.”

“Maybe. I’m glad it’s you, though. Wouldn’t hear it from anybody else.”

She looks up to the ceiling tiles again, and watches them for a few minutes. “I love you, y’know?”

“Mm.And I love you, too, yeah? More than I think you realize.” 

You pull a hand out from behind your head and reach out so it’s in Sam’s line of sight. She takes a hold of it, intertwining your fingers. Even though your stomach has started rumbling, you decide you aren’t in much of a rush. You want to spend a little more time with Sam, tracing cracks in the ceiling and enjoying the comfortable silence.

When your stomach started to rumble too much to ignore, breakfast was cooked and eaten. A quick shower later, and you’re laying on your back in bed again. Sam has slowly snuggled herself towards you, against you, and finally, half on top of you. You’re okay with that.

“So that was pretty much the end of my Alex hallucination. Or whatever we want to call it. The second time I opened that door, he told me to get out, so I did. Then the coin fell out of my hand, and it was all gone.”

“I can’t believe you actually got into the closet after seeing that.”

Neither do you. “I didn’t want to, but there was nowhere else to, well, hide. I didn’t know if I could make it to the washroom without being seen. And it’s not like I jumped in there immediately.”

“So there’s more, then?”

“Yeah, I- I tried one more time.” You don’t know how much of this one you can tell her. How do you calmly explain to her that you willingly stood and waited for a plane to drop on you? It wasn’t real, and it wasn’t like you actually _did_ choose to stand there, but combined with some of the dreams you’ve had, it _would_ maybe seem somewhat worrying. But she doesn’t know about any of your dreams yet, so she’ll only have one example of you… killing yourself? Does only having one example make it better? “It was a badge that I picked up. I didn’t really get much of a look at it, because the first thing I saw was some Kanji etched on it. I ran my thumb over the etchings, to feel the grooves, I guess.. But when I did that, I ended up flicking a lighter on, and the badge was gone. When I signalled the plane? I had found the badge in a building near the tank I set on fire.”

She’s managed to tuck her face up against the crook of your neck, and you can feel her words when she talks. “You set it on fire again, then?”

“No, it was already on fire. I was just standing there with the lighter. Waiting, I guess. I kept flicking it on and off.”

“The plane didn’t show up?”

“Uh, it did. And it was the same thing over again, struck by lightning, and then crashing.” How do you phrase this? “I, well, I just stood and watched it fall.”

“It landed somewhere else?”

Well. Technically, yes, it did. You wouldn’t be lying, you’d just be omitting some potentially upsetting details. “Yeah, it- yeah.”

“That’s weird.” She rolls off of you and onto her side. She looks genuinely contemplative. “Where did it land, then? Somewhere else that was significant?”

_It landed on your significant other_ , you could tell her. You don’t. “I didn’t see.” Everything was black at that point, so you’re still not lying. You might not be doing the right thing, skirting around the truth, but you aren’t lying.

“Hm. Why would it change so much?”

“I don’t know.” You really don’t. So why do you feel so bad about saying it? Because she’s thinking about it in a completely different way than you are. “It crashed into…” The whole truth dies on your lips. “It crashed, and I was back again.” You tried, at least. “I think I poked myself with the badge’s pin.”

“Hm.” Again, Sam makes her way back to cuddling you. “That one seems like the lesser of the three evils. You stopped after that?”

Edited, it certainly doesn’t sound all that terrible. “Yeah. I suppose that was enough for me to start panicking about what was happening.”

“That’s understandable. What do we do now, though? It’s not quite the same as baby stepping your way out of the house again.”

You wrap an arm around her. It feels odd to be this relaxed and comfortable while talking about this. The two of you must be starting to get used to it. Which is something that you wish was unnecessary. “I have no idea. What _am_ I supposed to do with myself, Sam?”

“We’ll figure us out. Just remember that you aren’t alone in this, okay?” She looks up and smiles at you. “Because without you, I’m kinda just a mess. I’ve heard that you might be too.”

 

* * *

_take this burden away from me, and bury it before it buries me_  

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The guilt, it runs deep. Deeper than the denial? The guilt gets deeper as the denial get shallower?
> 
> Okay, so here's how this chapter went.
> 
> Me: Alright guys, so this is what's gonna happen for a few thousand words.
> 
> Lara & Sam: Nah.
> 
> Me: oh okay then
> 
> Anyway, there's a line in this that I nicked from the fabulous Brian K. Vaughan. So thank you, good sir. Please continue to be amazing.
> 
> And I'll try to stop having Sam make inventory jokes after this chapter, I promise.
> 
> Coming soon to an ao3 dot org near you: a chapter that was titled but then changed so it needs to be retitled except i haven't gotten to that yet


	11. The Yamatai Camera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Fuck. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, Lara. _Please._ I didn’t know.”
> 
> She didn’t know. She didn’t know? _“Of course you didn’t! That’s the fucking point!”_

“So, what do we do with the rest of the day?” 

Sam’s still comfortably moulded against you. So comfortably that you’re starting to feel a little sleepy again. “I’m not sure, but we can’t stay like this or I’m going to fall asleep again.”

Somewhat reluctantly, she pushes away from you and sits up. “We probably don’t need a fucked sleep schedule on top of everything else, do we?”

“Not at all. I sleep badly enough as it is.” Even though it was your suggestion, you delay moving for a little longer, and you’re still laying down when you ask, “Sam, how is that you keep yourself together so well?”

She looks at you over her shoulder. “I do what, now?”

“Keep it together. Keep things under wraps? I mean, you’ve been telling me to stop apologizing for things all the time, but it took me until now to figure out that you’re sharing some of the same guilt with me. I guess guilt manifests in different ways, but still.”

She actually _laughs_. “Oh, sweetie. You keep saying that you’ve been, what? Oblivious to everything going on? Give it another day or two. I doubt I’m keeping everything as well hidden as you seem to think.”

It’s a lot less funny to you than it seems to be to her. “Today _is_ still open. If you want to talk about anything…”

“Where’s the fun in that? Random breakdowns are much more dramatic.” That answer does not impress you, and your expression passes on the message. “I know, Lara. I know.”

You’ve thought about it many times over the past few days. “It’s impressive, but it also scares the hell out of me, Sam. I can’t- I don’t know how to help if I don’t even know what’s wrong. If don’t even know that something is wrong. If I don’t know that I need to help.”

“And _you_ can’t stress about things that you don’t know about.” She looks dead serious, but seems completely unaware of her implication.

So you try to think about anything other than how it’s your fault that she’s bottling everything up so much. You don’t do a very good job of doing so. “You need to stop putting me first. You’re every bit as important. And, uh, I don’t want it to be my fault if… I don’t know, if something happens because you’re keeping things secret for my sake.” You push yourself up to sit beside her.

She visibly deflates. “I never thought about it that way. It wouldn’t be _your_ fault though, because it’s _my_ choice.” However petty it might be, you’ve started to notice that silence is sometimes the best way to get Sam to admit something. Sure enough, when you don’t respond, she looks away from you and quietly acknowledges, “But not everything works the way I see it, does it? Barely anything is actually the way I see it.” She’s starting to look and sound guilty, which is not what you intended.

“And that’s okay. Because you’re aware of it now. It’s not like I wasn’t- that I’m not doing the same thing. So now we both start to work on seeing things from perspectives beyond our own. The more we talk to each other, the easier it’ll be to do that, I think.”

“Yeah. Talking.” Her leg starts to bounce, and she looks down at it. “It’s hard? It’s bad enough thinking about it, but saying things out loud makes them feel more real. The realer stuff feels, the harder it is to ignore. It’s hard. Kinda scary.”

“It is.”

“I don’t know what to say, y’know?” Her hand runs through her hair.

It’s like she can’t seem to apply anything that she’s told you to herself. “Yeah. I know.”

She smiles at you, a sad smile. “I guess you do.” Not quite subtly enough, she leans her weight on her leg to stop it from tapping. “There _is_ one thing we could do.” It looks like she’s struggling with whatever it is she’s going to suggest. “Should we watch it?”

“What, the documentary?” You don’t know if you want to send her into another rampage of phone calls.

“Nah. Well, we could.” She pauses for a response. You wait to hear what it was that she was originally going to suggest. “No? Okay. I meant the camera. That you? That one.”

Oh. “You want to do that?”

“Not at all. But we probably should.” You’re not sure you agree. “I mean, you don’t have to, it can wait. It’s just- it feels doable to me right now, and I think that maybe I should take the opportunity before it passes.”

She sure as hell isn’t going to watch it alone, that much you know. But maybe _you_ should first? Other than your stupid journals, you don’t know what’s on there. “We can watch it. But do you want me to go through it first? I don’t know what all got recorded.” What you mean to say is ‘I don’t know how much footage there is of me brutally murdering people but even five seconds of it is more than I want you to see’. And that’s only one of many possible things that she could end up seeing.

“I’m gonna go out on a limb here, and say that watching it is the only way to find out.”

You sigh. “Right. Well, you aren’t watching it without me.” At least if you’re there, you can cover her eyes or something. Because that would go over oh so very well.

Pulling you along with her, she stands up. “Should I make some popcorn?”

Even if you did want any food, you’re not sure it would stay in your stomach long enough to be digested. “You’re quite funny.”

She stands up to leave, and shrugs. “It keeps me going.”

As you watch her walk away, you get a strange feeling that you just missed something important.

“Okay, last chance to back out” After an excruciatingly long wait while Sam connected approximately seventy-two cables to about five devices, she’s sitting beside you on The Sofa, remote in hand.

Your feet are ready to take you somewhere else, but your brain tells you to stay. “I’m not letting you watch this alone.”

“Oh come on,” She shoves your shoulder. “It can’t be… no, it probably _is_ that bad. Fuck it. Here we go.” She presses play, and you brace yourself for whatever you’re about to relive. In glorious HD, no less.

The beginning is just the first of your many one-sided conversations with the camera.“So this is it, huh? You didn’t want me to see your diary?” You wish that’s all it was. It must show on your face, because she hits pause to explain, “I’m sorry. I know I said I felt like I could do this, but I don’t know if I can without making jokes.”

You hope for the best. But every time you were thrown around, knocked down, beat up, any of that, any of it could have turned the camera on without you knowing. “Just start it.”

Your curt, not-quite-a-request sobers her. “Uh, ‘kay.” She hits play.

You tilt your head back and stare blankly upwards while you wait for your first monologue to finish. This was probably a terrible idea. Possibly the worst idea.

When your recorded voice stops, it’s followed by loud ruffling noises from the camera presumably being banged around. It’s not loud enough to cover your shouting though, and you look back to the TV to see what’s happening. Without audio, you’d have no idea, because the video is wildly jumping around, which is actually a little nauseating. Hopefully the rest of the footage is like this. Potential motion sickness is more appealing than having to properly watch almost anything you might see. While you’re listening to camera-you struggle, Sam’s watching real-you instead of the screen. You pretend not to notice. You have nothing to say.

_“Just… along with… whatever they say.”_

Thanks to the noise of the camera being jostled around, as well as your own voice being much closer, you can only hear snippets of Whitman yelling at you. You’re not missing anything, though. This is enough of a reminder for you to remember everything clearly. There’s some distorted Russian voices, and you hear yourself protest one more time before you see the pause symbol in the corner of the screen.

“I didn’t know that that asshole just… gave you to them so willingly. He didn’t even try to stop them?” Sam’s looking at you, making it too obvious for you to not acknowledge this time.

Your hands go up in a weak ‘so what?’ fashion, but you end up just dropping them limply back down when you decide you still have nothing to say. You shrug at her. Yeah, this was an absolutely terrible idea. Sam’s _still_ watching you, and you wave your hand at her in a ‘carry on’ motion.

“Ohh-kay. Are you sure that you’re fine with this? I wasn’t really thinking about how you already kinda rewatched some of this yesterday, if you know what I mean? It can wait.”

Why is she delaying so much? This was her idea. “Jesus, Sam. _Just fucking start it._ If I end up in a closet, you can drag me out again. Okay?”

She continues to watch you, blinking a few times. Eventually she glances away from you for a moment. “Okay…” She picks up the remote.

You look back to the TV to watch the ground sway around sickeningly again. 

_“Who are you people? What do you want from us?”_ Your voice. Then more Russian. Then your name from one of your crew mates that they had captured. He isn’t on screen, obviously, and Sam quickly peeks over at you, but you don’t identify him for her. She doesn’t need a visual.

The same Russian voice again, this time speaking English. And much clearer, since you aren’t being thrown around on the ground anymore. _“If they give you any trouble, kill them.”_

You know this movie word for word. _“Don’t hurt them, please!”_ The camera is swaying much gentler now, and you can see your feet and the very edge of the base of a tree.

_“I said, silence, girl!”_ The camera almost stops swaying as the voice switches back to Russian. You try to ignore the sudden phantom feeling of _his_ hands on you.

The camera jolts and your crew mate’s yelling now. _“Let go of her! Lara, run!”_ Then you hear the gunshot.

With that gunshot, it occurs to you that you’ve just started watching a snuff film. A very, very long snuff film. And soon enough, you’re going to be the star. You fight off an intense wave of nausea.

You close your eyes, but you still hear camera-you yelling, _“Oh, no. No!”_ There’s a loud ‘thwack’ and you flinch. Apparently _he_ backhanded you so hard that the camera actually picked up the sound of it. It catches your cry of pain as well, then a thud. You don’t need to see the footage suddenly jump around to know what the cause of the noise was. The thud is immediately followed by static, and you force your eyes open again.

The screen is blurry to you, but you can still see the telltale white blob in the corner of the screen. Sam has paused it again. You continue to stare forward, through the screen rather than at it.

“Lara, who? You had to watch them kill? You never told-”

You don’t want sympathy, you want to get this over with. “Right, well, I could write a fucking novel about the things I haven’t told you. You know, the less you hit pause, the quicker we can finish watching this.”

Out of the corner of your eye, you see her stand up, and you turn to watch whatever it is she’s going to do. She moves over to her set up, and roughly yanks out a few of the cords plugged into the camera. “No, I think we’re done for now. I, uh, I think it can wait some more.” She nervously straightens all the cords in front of her. “Lara?”

“Whatever you want.” You’re unaware of how much you’re rubbing at your side.

“Lara.” You don’t know what she wants from you at this point. So you don’t give her anything, and just stay silent. “Fuck. Lara?” She’s back in front of you now, and has crouched down to be at eye level. Her fingers are tapping rapidly against her thigh. “Shit. Lara, I’m sorry. This was- I shouldn’t’ve. I, uh… god, why did I think this was okay? Fuck. I wasn’t thinking. I’m sorry, Lara. _Please._ I didn’t know.”

She didn’t know. She didn’t know? “ _Of course you didn’t! That’s the fucking point!_ ” You close your eyes again and try to calm down. You take a deep breath and you’re much more gentle when you tell her, “I don’t want you to know. You don’t need to see. There’s no reason for you to put yourself through that.” After a moment of nothing but silence and darkness, you feel a hand over yours, pulling it away from your stomach. When you figure out why your hand was there, you realize that she’s probably going to ask you about it later. You could do without that. Still, you open your eyes once again, and she’s looking directly at you. It looks like tears are threatening.

“Yeah, there is a reason. And that reason is you. After yesterday, I realized there are so many gaps in what I know about what you went through. And I just- I don’t know. If you won’t tell me, then I gotta find out somehow, right? You said this same thing earlier: I can’t help you if I don’t know what’s wrong. I thought… maybe I might know a little more of what’s wrong if I knew a little more of what happened to you. But I shouldn’t have- I’m so sorry, Lara. Please.”

She was trying to help, and you were an ass. Granted, her way of helping wasn’t perhaps the most well thought out, but still. You hang your head. You’d like to take back everything you yelled at her, or change your delivery at least. “No, I’m sorry. I could have just said no from the start, but I didn’t. Then I made it go even better by shouting at you.” You sigh. “Do you know what watching that reminded me of?”

Of course she does. “Yamatai.”

“And do you know what I did?” You hope she does.

“Panicked?”

“Yeah. Apparently it decided to manifest as anger though. I’m sorry.”

She nudges your chin up so that you’re looking at her again. “It’s okay. I forgive you. I wish you’d tell me more, but I pushed you again. And I’m sorry for that.” You’re about to apologize for going off on her again, but she stops you with a finger over your lips. “We’ve both said sorry a few times. That’s enough of them for now. Okay?”

You nod, and she pulls her hand back. “If it makes you feel better, there’s a prequel to the book of _What You Don’t Know_. It’s called _What Sam Knows._ Because you know a hell of a lot more than anybody else does. Enough to fill another novel.”

You’ve succeeded in putting a small smile on her face. But as she stands up, you watch it disappear for a split second when she glances at your side. You scratch at it again.

“You know, if I’m going to ‘stop putting you first’ in order to start to be more open, I’d really like if you did the equivalent. I don’t know what you think is so horrible that you can’t even mention it. But. I was there too. I’m not saying you have to tell me every single thing, and you don’t have to go into exceptional detail, but I’ve already said this once,” She knocks on the top of your head. “You can’t keep everything up there. So think about it, please.” With that, she turns away and starts gathering up all the camera bits that were laid out. 

You drop your head when she leaves to dump everything back where it came from, and you see your hand, still scratching. “Shit.” She’s right, of course. You don’t know what to tell her about your weird fixation with your stomach wound, and clearly she’s noticed. Acknowledging it officially isn’t really the first on your list of things you’d like to do, nor is acknowledging that fact that Sam’s picked up on it. And while you know she wasn’t intending to guilt trip you into immediately spilling all your secrets, you feel like you should tell her something. Impulsively, you yell out after her. “I killed him.” You don’t hear her respond, and you think that maybe she didn’t hear you, which might not be a terrible thing. It’s not quite the first thing you’d like to share, but it was the first thing you thought of.

While you’re deciding whether or not to repeat yourself, Sam’s voice comes from directly behind you. “What?” She sounds surprised, and you assume it’s because of what you just said. The fact that you said it, not the actual content. Because as unfortunate as it is, ‘I killed him’ is a phrase you could use very commonly right now.

“Please don’t make me say it again, not right now.” You know you’ll be saying it a lot in the weeks to come. “Don’t want to wear it out.”

She sits beside you again. “Funny.”

“I’m hoping it’ll keep me going?” She doesn’t say anything, just tilts her head slightly. “I don’t like saying that out loud.” Apparently, silence also works quite well on you, because when she continues to say nothing, you sigh and tell her, “The man who was talking. In the recording.”

“Alright.” She bumps your shoulder with hers and swings her legs up onto the couch, and then into your lap. “So what actually happened?”

Looking at her, she seems far too relaxed for this confession, but then again, she isn’t the one explaining how she killed a man. It’s only the fact that you notice her scratching at the back of her neck that tells you she isn’t quite as comfortable as she looks. “Well, I was about to get to that.”

A foot bounces once in your lap, and any facade that she had is now ruined. “No. I meant, uh, what we watched. Listened to, more like.” She winces, like she’s expecting you to get angry with her. Which is understandable, given how you were acting earlier. “I- I know we weren’t going to watch any more but… we’ve already seen that bit. We can’t take it back? I can’t. I’m sorry. I don’t, it isn’t that I want to push you more, but. If you’re going to tell me about whoever this guy was, I just think- the beginning? Start there?” She’s still reclined against the arm of The Sofa but her body language, her language in general, has done a 180 from the moment she began talking. “Can you just fill in some gaps? Maybe?”

You can’t rewind. You can’t take back what she heard. But maybe if you give it context, if you explain what happened, maybe you’ll feel even just the smallest amount better about telling Sam what you did. The whole story makes it more acceptable, easier to rationalize? You wonder if she knows that, and if that’s why she struggled to ask you what she did. She wouldn’t have said anything if she didn’t have a purpose, she’s far too afraid she’s going to say something that’ll upset you. So if she forced herself to take a chance, she must have had a purpose. “You know, Sam, I don’t think you give yourself enough credit.” You gently rest your hands on her feet to stop them from twitching.

“Huh?”

“Never mind. I’ll… I can try telling you some parts.” You’re tiptoeing a strange line between ‘Sam knows’ and ‘Sam would like you to explain’. You think it might be easier if you were clearly on _one_ side of that line. It doesn’t matter which, because either way you’d have a much better idea of what to say. “A group of the men took my bow, pinned me down. The camera must have turned on when I hit the ground. You heard Whitman, I don’t think I need to go over that. They tied my wrists and then they took me to a camp.” Where you made a pitiful attempt to run. An attempt than ended up costing you a friend’s life. You tip your head back and talk to the ceiling again. After laying on the bed with Sam, something about the tiles above are calming. “You heard what happened there. It was him who made the gunshot; I kind of tried to duck away, and that was when he shot… I yelled, yeah? And then there were some noises.” You look back to Sam. “Do you?”

“Lara,” Her voice is soft. “There was practically no video, and I wasn’t there.”

A headache is creeping up on you again. You pinch at the bridge of your nose and take a deep breath. You don’t want to relive this _again_ and you push out the rest of the missing footage in the breath you took. “He slapped me when I yelled and that was why I cried out and the loud noise right before it ended was me hitting the ground.”

Sam’s chewing on her lip, and it looks like she’s struggling with something to say. She leans forward and reaches out to lightly stroke your cheek. It’s a sweet gesture, but it’s the wrong cheek, and you stop yourself before you point that out. There’s no reason to. “Lara, I-“

You cut her off, clearly she’s still trying to find what she thinks is the right thing to say. “It’s fine. I’m not done yet, so you might as well wait to try and justify this for me.”

“Lara.”

You’re starting to hate when she says your name that way. Like you’re wrong about whatever you’re saying. Like _you_ don’t hear what _you’re_ saying. Like you’re hiding something, repressing something. This is the opposite of that, is it not? Actually telling her things? “Just listen to the rest, okay? You’re the one who asked to hear this.” She leans back again and mutely nods at you. 

You’re getting defensive, almost agitated, again. This isn’t going to work if you get short with Sam every time you talk through things. You can’t keep letting yourself get overwhelmed. It isn’t even that you’re angry with Sam; there’s no reason for you to be. It’s more that you’re angry about this entire situation. Either way, you can’t take that anger out on her. It isn’t fair, and _you’re_ going to be the one who pushes _her_ away if you do that. You pinch the bridge of your nose again and squint. “I’m sorry. I keep snapping at you. It’s not fair, and it’s not right. It’s just everything…” You’re getting off track, and while you do need to tell her this, you need to finish what you’ve started first. “After the camera stopped recording, he told me to stay where I was, and then left. I didn’t stay, obviously. My hands were still tied so I did my best to quietly sneak through a bunch of guards.” You stop to scoff at yourself. “I should have gone the opposite direction. I ran right back to them. I found a… a little crevice between some broken down huts. But that same man, he found me. He pulled his gun on me and told me to get out.” 

You feel somewhat detached as you replay the events. You’re telling the story in short, clipped sentences, as if it’s simply that: a story. Not something that actually happened to you. “I was trapped between him and the huts, and he, uh, I think he was going to… I struggled, of course. Eventually I pushed him away enough that I could get enough speed to knock him down. But since my hands were still useless, I fell too. And-“ Two and two put themselves together when you listen to your own words, and you desperately hope that somehow they don’t end up making four. “I fell. The camera turned on and off when I fell during that first recording. What if that _is_ something that… no. No. No, no. You can’t see that. Sam, you can’t see that.” You’re breathing short, shallow, little breaths and you’re having a hard time keeping yourself calm. “That’s not. I don’t want you to see that. You shouldn’t have to see what I did. You-“

“Hey. Stop. Slow down.” When she stops you, you turn to look at Sam. You don’t remember looking away. “You need to remember, and continue remembering, that _I was there too_. I saw people die too. I don’t know why you think that I must have completely lost my sight the entire time we were there. I saw a lot of things too, Lara.” She’s chewing on her lip again, and her eyes are focused on something invisible on the floor. “I mean, I watched while they- I had to watch you get beaten nearly to death. There might have been a ton of other horrible shit that happened, but… I don’t think there’s anything I can watch that would be worse than that. Maybe that’s cold, and maybe it’s biased. But it’s the truth.” She rapidly blinks a few times before looking back up at you. “And hey, your camerawork was pretty terrible from what we’ve already watched. I don’t think I’ll be _seeing_ it.” A smile that doesn’t look quite right accompanies her joke, and maybe, just maybe, she was right about how you simply haven’t noticed most of the cracks in the armour that she’s adorned.

“I wish you hadn’t been there for that. I’m so-“ You catch yourself before apologizing for what isn’t your fault. Seems that Sam’s chastising is starting to work. “I don’t know why I assume that. I guess I want to protect you from it all, but it’s far too late for that, isn’t it?” She shrugs and nods her head. “Alright. Well, we both fell. So the camera might be on for this part. I hope it isn’t, but…” Before continuing, you sigh heavily one more time. “When I knocked him down, he hit the ground pretty hard. The gun flew out of his hand. I don’t know exactly how I landed, but it loosened the ropes from my wrists. We both scrambled for the gun. I got there first, but he still fought me for it. He was on top of me, and it was- it was like some twisted game of tug of war. Somehow I pushed the gun up enough so it was pointing at him.” The end of the story is stuck in your throat and you turn your head away from Sam. Looking her in the eye is too much right now. “So I pulled the trigger. I shot him. I shot… he was barely three feet away from me, if that. I shot him point blank in the face.” That’s about all there is to say, and you turn back to Sam, who is quietly watching you. You’re anxious now, and it’s still difficult to maintain eye contact, so you stare down at the feet in your lap again.

After far too long of a silence, you hear Sam say a pair of words that you feared the most. “That’s horrible.”

“Please, you have to understand.” You’re mumbling weakly. You don’t know how to explain. You’re ready to start begging, if you have to. “If I hadn’t-“

“Woah!” You startle slightly and look up at her again. “No. I’m sorry, I didn’t phrase that… I meant, it’s horrible that you had to do that.” She shoves your legs with one of her feet. “Let me repeat that one part: that you _had to do that_. Unless you’re twisting the truth somehow, which I’m pretty damn sure that you aren’t, I don’t think you had a choice, Lara.” The room is quiet while she pauses. It seems like she’s searching for words, but she isn’t fidgeting, and the panicked look that’s usually on her face is absent. “I’ll be honest. I don’t know what I can say to help lessen the weight that this is putting on you. I’m not even worried about messing it up, because I actually, legitimately, don’t know what to tell you. I don’t know what you need to hear. Not at this point, at least. So I’m not going to try right now, because it’ll all be meaningless. But I will always be here to help you carry that weight, however you need me to. You did what you had to on Yamatai to survive, and I’m sure as hell not going to lose you to what that island did back. We didn’t survive just to be done in by the aftermath.”

“I…” She doesn’t know it, but what she just said _did_ help lift the tiniest amount of that weight from your shoulders. The fact that she didn’t condemn you. “Thank you.”

“No. Thank _you._ For telling all that to me. There’s no way that was easy.” She motions for you to lay down with her. You do, and make a note to make sure your replacement sofa is slightly wider. “But that was step one, y’know? That was big. You’ve started.”

_You’ve_ started. She’s belittling herself again. While you take a moment to consider that, Sam starts rearranging the two of you so you’re laying on your back and she can cuddle into your side again. “It’s not just me. You picked your camera back up. That’s a start.”

“That’s not the same. I just have to stand there and hold the camera. You’re sitting here telling me things that you don’t want to even say out loud at all.” She doesn’t pause for a second, not giving you any opportunity to protest. “You can’t argue that. You literally said that before you started. And I what? Carried a camera around for a bit? It’s not the same.”

She falls silent and defaults to burying her face in the crook of your neck. You’re starting to wonder if that’s her equivalent of your hoodie. “It’s not a race, Sam.”

“Yeah.” She sighs, and it feels like you should drop the topic for now. Your headache is still lingering after explaining all that, even in limited detail. Sam doesn’t look bothered to move, and you’ve got nothing better to do. There’s been enough, too much, drama for the day. You can stay here for a bit.

You do, and you do so in silence once again. The pattern of the ceiling tiles really are starting to have a calming effect on you. It’s odd, but you’ll take whatever comfort you can get. You’re thinking about how to extend the duration of the ceiling’s life when you feel Sam exhale heavily against your neck. 

“It’s one of the dreams I have a lot. Watching you get beaten. Sometimes they stop, like what actually happened. But sometimes, by the end? I can’t even recognize you. And it loops. It happens over and over and I can’t do anything. It’s… I have nightmares about that a lot.”

Where did that come from? “Sam, you don’t have to-“

“I want to. I started thinking about telling you when I was talking about it. It felt like another case of ‘say it now or it’ll be harder to do later’, I guess.” She doesn’t make any attempt to move, doesn’t try to meet your eyes at all. She just continues to talk into your shoulder. Now you’re almost positive that it _is_ a defence mechanism. “I have that dream, and it’s awful. I wake up and I’m scared to look at you. It feels so fucking real that when I wake up I’m terrified that when I look at you, you’re going to be beaten and bruised, or worse. And it’s dark in the room, so I can’t really see anyway. That makes me want to like, I don’t know, triple check that you’re okay, even though I _know_ it was just a dream. I don’t though, because, uh,” A huff of air against your neck as she chuckles sadly. “I don’t want you to wake up to me groping your face. I usually end up spending a long time listening and watching you breathe. Watching you still be alive?”

Like Sam, you don’t know what to say. Maybe the listening is actually harder than the talking, because that phantom hand came back and reached into your chest again while Sam was speaking. “Sam…”

“You don’t have to say anything. I was the one who had to.” She shakes her head. “I can’t keep up the joking bullshit.”

“I don’t know that I agree that you _had_ to. I really don’t want you to push yourself before you’re ready, okay? But I’m going to say that I think you just took that first step.” You crane your neck to plant a quick kiss on the top of her head. “I’m proud of you.”

“It’s still not the same.”

Never did you think you’d have to convince her that this isn’t a contest. “You need to stop comparing things, Sam. Not only does it not matter in the end, but we don’t have the same things to compare. We both have dreams, sure, but you weren’t running and gunning like I was. You were…” You have to stop for a moment when you realize that you don’t really know what all happened with her on Yamatai.

“There. That right there. You don’t know. I’ve barely told you anything.”

She really _can’t_ tell herself the same things she’s been telling you, can she? “I seem to recall something about a book of things that Sam doesn’t know? I’m not going to call you a hypocrite again but,”

Her laughter cuts you off. “You kinda just did.”

“Is there something about that word that makes you laugh? Anyway, what I want to tell you is that you need to listen to everything that you tell me, and then tell it to yourself. Why did you want to watch the camera?”

Any residual laughter is silenced. “So I could find out what happened to you. Because I… didn’t know.”

“See?” You don’t get a response. “I don’t know why you can’t hear what you’re saying and realize that it applies to you as well, but do you think you could give it a try?”

“Logical Lara Croft. The fuck would I do without you?”

A smile dances on your lips. “You’d probably still be crawling down a really tall mountain.”

She flails a leg around to kick at you. “I thought that wasn’t funny.”

“I’m clearly just a better comedian than you are.” You try to kick back, but you aren’t exactly in the best position to do so, and you end up rolling Sam off The too-small Sofa. She yelps. “Shit. Sam, I’m sorry.”

“Lara?”

“What?” You shuffle off The Sofa as well, and end up in a pile on top of her.

“Can I call _you_ a hypocrite now?”

A small giggle turns into full laughter. Maybe there is something about that word that’s funny. Before the two of you end up in another giggle fit, she shuts you up by leaning up to kiss you. She pulls away too quickly, and grins at you. “There’s something romantic about heavy conversations about death, huh?”

You roll your eyes. “Must you try to ruin everything?” Luckily, she’s trapped beneath you, and you don’t give her a chance to reply before you lean back down into her.

* * *

  _i want to know whoever broke you, i want to know how you can grow bigger_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i cannot fucking believe that i squandered my opportunity to use this song in the last chapter i cannot believe i did it i literally worked the title of it into the dialogue and i didn't even notice i cannot believe
> 
> Uh, anyway. I'm using it now. Picked different lyrics from it though to fit this chapter better (at least it still does kinda fit). It's probably because I've been listening to an embarrassingly large amount of dubstep, like probably unhealthy amounts. who wants a tr dubstep mix!!?!
> 
> Okay, clearly I'm slightly traumatized about this lyric debacle but wow I'll stop going on about it now.
> 
> This kinda ended up all over the place because Lara & Sam kinda took over again. Mostly Lara. Thanks, fictional character who doesn't have the sentience to realize that they're ruining my super loose outline.
> 
> ...Did I fluff it up enough at the end to make up for the angstfest that I started at the museum?
> 
> p.s. thank you for all the kind reviews i know i don't really respond but they make me happy when i see them aka i'm glad some of you seem to think that, to loosely quote, yeah this is good shit it's some good shit right here if you do say so yourselves
> 
> p.p.s. How bullshit was the last issue of the comic?
> 
> What's next?: a chapter with a title that pertains to the content of said chapter


	12. The Twisty Rainbow Marshmallows

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I have no idea what’s going on right now, but if you’re having some sort of crisis that somehow involves furniture stacking and marshmallows,” She triumphantly pulls the apples free, and looks up at your creation. “I have even less of an idea of how to deal with that than- Oh. Wow. Jesus. That’s… wow."

Before she left in the morning, Sam warned you that she might be out longer than normal, in order to make up for some of the things she had to cancel yesterday. You, of course, feel slightly guilty about this, because you were the one who went and had a breakdown in a public broom closet. You've covered The Sofa with a blanket and are laying on it, playing catch with yourself with a stress ball that Sam seemed to have materialized out of nowhere. You have a feeling that it's meant to keep your hands away from your stomach, and you wonder just how obvious it's been. You don't even notice it half the time, which you realize might actually be what would have made it obvious. You try not to think about how long Sam's been waiting to gift you the bright yellow stress ball with a shaky smiley face permamarkered onto it, if you do, you might figure out how long ago she noticed.

You're laying there, repeatedly throwing the little ball up in the air, and listening to the sound of the television being off. Not only have you no desire to go back to your documentary series, you aren't all that keen on watching any TV at all. You've done enough of that. What else there is to do, you aren't sure. You wouldn't say that you want to go travel the world right this moment, but you  _are_  feeling a little restless. You didn't recognize the feeling at first; it's been awhile.

You fumble the ball, and it bounces off of your forehead and rolls a few feet away from you, smiling the whole time. Your arms flop down beside you in defeat, and you check the time. A few minutes past eleven, which is about eighteen minutes since you last checked. Brilliant.

There must be something you can do. You've been spoiled the last few days, having Sam home with you. Maybe that isn't quite the correct word, as they haven't been the most pleasant days. They weren't complete shit though, and you weren't all alone with your thoughts, so yeah, you decide, 'spoiled' is correct. You heave yourself up, and look around.

There is always the matter of The Sofa. But you'd rather Sam have input on its replacement, as your only requirement is 'wider'. There is the carpet as well, but neither of you have decided whether you care enough to replace it, or to just rearrange. You move on.

You peek into your study, as if it isn't your own room. Tentatively, you step in and walk over your desk. It's still littered with random notes and papers about Yamatai that were inconsequential enough for you to leave behind. It's almost funny how the small, unimportant things are what survived. You shuffle them into a neat pile, doing your best not to read anything. Tidied. Looking around the rest of the room makes you tired, and you figure that maybe you shouldn't even try any reading. You'd just get frustrated. You tidy the already tided papers again, and it's almost a shame that the room is so neat, because at least you could occupy yourself with that. You brush a light layer of dust from a bobble head of a character from some medical soap opera show that Sam watches. (She said she bought it for you because the character reminded her of you, and although you aren't sure why she thought you'd want a wobbly pseudo-you on your own desk, it's become a permanent fixture there). It bobbles when you touch it, and another little puff of dust poofs out from its head. People don't actually dust, do they? It's just one of those things that everybody lies about, surely. You move on.

Your bedroom is… your bedroom. As it has been of late, your laptop is plugged in here, but that's about all there is. You absently fluff the pillows on the bed. If dusting was real, you  _could_  do it here as well, and making up beds is definitely another thing that people lie about. You move on.

You stand at the door of the bathroom. Bathroom cleaning  _is_  actually a real thing. After glancing around too quickly to actually get a good look at the room, you decide that yes, it is certainly clean enough. Without even stepping in, you move on.

Sam's camera slash editing slash junk slash sometimes dining room is cluttered and organized in a manner that only Sam can decipher. Still, you can find key items. Such as The Yamatai Camera and Memory Cards. You nudge the camera to the edge of the desk it's on, but push it back when you realize that you would accomplish nothing other than probably start filming your sabotage attempt. Instead, you pop the SD card out of the camera and twirl it in your hand as you contemplate. You shouldn't… but. You could. It'd be a bad idea though. Sam would know better than to just assume that somehow the card just died on it's own. Especially after having already seen that it was working. It could go missing. That would be handy. It would also be incredibly obvious that it didn't just walk away by itself. You set the card down on the desk, and stare at it about as intensely as you would at one of those hidden picture eye illusion posters. This card is one of the few actually tangible things that can help you open a more direct line of communication with Sam. And you're finally starting to realize how little sense it makes to be here together, but on a separated basis. If you can't share what's really going on in your head with Sam… then what the hell is the point? You slip the card back into the camera, and think back over how much you've actually been self-sabotaging. A pinch at your side snaps your attention to the fact that you're picking at your stomach again. You move on, making a side stop to pick up the stress ball.

You can see into the laundry room, where all the bottles have been cleaned up. Tossing the stress ball back and forth between your hands (not exactly how it's meant to be used, but you figure that it's still serving its supposed purpose), you tell yourself not to bother with an excuse, and to just ignore any dirty laundry. You pull the door shut, and move on.

The kitchen. You've been ambling around long enough that it's a decent time for lunch, now. The stress ball (Otis, you've decided. His name is Otis.) is tossed onto the counter, and you open the fridge to find not much of anything at all. You could scramble together enough random food to resemble a meal. You  _could_ go out to buy groceries, or to some sort of restaurant. Still holding the door of the fridge open, you click your tongue while you consider your options. After a large amount of cold air has escaped, you remember that you should close the door of the fridge, and you walk back out to the living room once you've done so. You approach the front door, and grab the handle. It takes you another minute to actually turn it.

You stand in the doorframe, wearing your dirty pyjama pants and egged bunny slippers, and watch the rest of the world live its life. It isn't even that there's all that much activity going on, you live in a quiet area. It's the fact that people are living their lives  _so_   _easily._ It doesn't… it isn't fair. You went through hell only to end up standing not-quite-outside your own home, watching a woman jog down the street, and envying her almost to the point of actively, unwarrantedly, but actively hating her for how easily she's, well… for how easily she's existing. And you  _know_  you shouldn't judge her life based only on how she's outside, jogging. There are so many other facets, other things that you don't know. But she's  _outside_ , and she isn't having a nervous breakdown, not that you can tell, at least. You'd say that you'd kill for that, except that's part of what's keeping you from putting on some real clothes and strolling out your door.

It's like you're a small child with a security blanket. Except your blanket is a living human being, and that human the only thing keeping you together right now. It's the concept that's the same: can't go anywhere without her and god forbid you lose her, because all hell would break loose (and you can do a lot more damage than a toddler). You close your eyes and lean against the doorframe for a minute before you take a forced step out. After shuffling forward a few more half steps, you sit on your front step. The fresh air is nice. You plant your elbows on your thighs and lean forward to rest your chin in your hands.

When you went out with Sam, you would have lost it on the sidewalk outside of the first shop. What exactly you would have done, you aren't sure, but you wouldn't have made made it into the store, at the very least. Then you went out all on your lonesome, like a grown-up, and promptly locked yourself away in a closet. In your defence, it was the flashbacks that caused that. For all you know, you could have had a nice day in the museum had you just been there looking at an exhibit. Though if you were walking through an exhibit, there would also be other people doing the same and… you're edging yourself towards self-loathing. You stop focusing on thinking.

Instead, you focus on not thinking at all. It takes much more conscious effort than it should, and you can still feel the fresh air, but you're not able to really focus on any of the scenery. That's okay. You're okay with doing nothing but breathing right now, because you're doing it outside. Two steps away from your front door, but still, outside. You lose track of time, somewhat, and your stomach is trying to tell you to eat, but. Outside. Calmly outside.

And then a dog barks.

And you shoot to your feet and you're grasping for your bow which isn't there and you don't have time to question that so you go for a gun instead and when you find that your pistol isn't where it should be you reach for your shotgun and end up grabbing thin air. You look around for anything, anything you can find that you can use to keep yourself alive and the nearest thing to you is an obviously neglected planter with some pretty sad looking flowers planted in it and… you planted them yourself. You're holding your own flowerpot. You're standing in front of your flat, wielding your own planter that no longer has your flowers in it, as they were so withered that they gave up the ghost when you whipped them up from the step. You're standing defensively, in your yard, ready to bash somebody or something's head in with a rectangle of dirt and flowers that you couldn't even keep alive. With that assessment, the rush of adrenaline leaves you, and that self-loathing that you warded off earlier comes back. With friends, even: some anxiety, a little bit of shame, a drop of fear, and what is probably an 'enough' worth of embarrassment.

You place the pot down, somewhere in the general vicinity of where it came from, and back into your flat through the door that you're glad you left open. When you're fully back inside, anger courses through you and you  _slam_  the door shut. You punch it, hard, for good measure, and then drop yourself down to sit on the floor, leaning back against the door. Your hand is throbbing, a knuckle was scraped, and you sit flexing your hand through the pain while you try to let the anger go. The pain in your hand actually helps a bit, distracts you. It's not enough, though. If 'seeing red' was more than a phrase, everything in your sight would be crimson right now.

You're angry at Yamatai. For what it did to you. You're angry at Mathias. For what he took from you. You're angry at the Solarii. For what they forced you to do to them, for the instincts they ingrained in you. You're angry at Himiko. For not actually being  _just a legend_. You're angry at your father. For being right about legends not being just legends. You're even somewhat, ever so slightly, angry at Roth, at Alex, at Grim,  _at_   _Whitman, even_. For leaving you.

Mostly, you're angry with yourself. Because you feel  _so_  out of control and lost and you can't fix that. Because you aren't who you used to be and you can't fix that. Because you can't seem to function as a human anymore and you can't fix that. Because you are so, so, incredibly fucked up.  _And. You. Can't. Fix. That._

You want to.

You don't know how to.

At one point, after you sat down on the floor, you must have forced yourself to start breathing deeply. The thump of your pulse is losing volume in your ears, and your head is starting to feel a little less light. You also must have started picking at your knuckle, because it's slightly more than a scrape now, and a few of your fingers as well as the other knuckles beside it are sticky. There are probably plenty of better options, but you choose to focus on the pain of that as your body allows you to start registering it again. You sit, eyes fixed on your knuckles, watching the minuscule seeping of blood, and you try to block out everything but your breathing and the minor pain in your hand.

When you're finally able to start thinking clearly again, you replay what just happened and end up shaking your head at yourself. You just want to go outside. Is that really too much to ask? You briefly entertain the idea of seeking proper professional help, and then decide to forget that you ever considered it. Why it seems so off-putting, you aren't sure. But you don't like the idea of it.

Also, your anger worries you. Not necessarily that you're experiencing it, because you feel you have a right to be angry about what happened, to a certain extent. What worries you is the fact that you're noticing it  _now_. Like yesterday, when you almost exploded at Sam. Maybe this isn't the start of some potential anger issues. Maybe you've just not paid attention to it before. And god, you hope it isn't, but what if it's at least part of the reason Sam is so afraid of saying the wrong thing?

The concept of that doesn't calm you down, per se. You've, at this point, now settled down enough that that isn't an immediate issue. It's more that the concept of it pushes you to decide to at least start to work on controlling your emotions. You aren't sure how you're going to do that, but there's probably at least one crap WikiHow on the topic.

When you eventually stand up, one of your knees pops. Sam's right. You need to start having breakdowns in more comfortable places.

Sam. You look at your hand. Sam deserves better than to come home only to find you covered in blood  _again_. It's dried and flaky, sure, but it's still blood. On your way to the bathroom, you check the clock. Half past two. You don't know how all that time was split between outside and inside. It's not like it really matters anyway.

When you wash your hands, your knuckle starts to slowly turn red again. Normally you'd leave it be, as it isn't bleeding enough to be much of an issue. But you'd rather bandage it; the fact that you were picking at it is pretty easy to see. Between that and your stitches, you don't want Sam to think you have some sort of problem. You slap a bandaid over it and head back to the kitchen.

Looking into the fridge again, you realize you've lost your appetite. Another worrying pattern, but you suppose it's alright for now, because nothing new has appeared in there since you last checked. The same jar of peanut butter, the same lone reject potato, the same carton of juice, the same half empty pack of hot dogs. You abandon the idea of lunch, pick up Otis, and go back to the living room to wistfully stare out your window, like that infamous doggie in the pet store window. You'd love to just go for a walk even. Maybe you could get Sam to, you're being honest with yourself when you phrase it, to get Sam to take you on a walk. Like she would with the doggie in the window. You sigh. It would be great to be out at night, see the night sky again without a pane of glass in the way, and feel the breeze. It feels different at night, for whatever reason. Out of everything, just being outside during the night is something you quite miss.

An idea comes to you, and you tilt your head while you think. You're doing a number on poor Otis, but when you turn around to survey the room, you give him a break and abandon him. The blanket draped on The Sofa is your main focus. This is something you generally do at night. Outside. But maybe you can make it work as an indoor activity.

Furniture gets pushed around and rearranged, and you leave temporarily to find as many blankets as you can gather. They fly through the air and when you're somewhat satisfied with your prototype, you dart back to the kitchen to double check in the fridge. The hot dogs are (obviously) still there. Sam likes hot dogs. Sam also likes chocolate. You dash around, opening cupboards, searching for any sign of chocolate. Sure enough, there's one of those oversized bars of pure chocolate stashed away. Perfect. You grab it, and find some cookies as well. Chocolate chip isn't exactly traditional, but it'll do in a pinch. You're missing something though, and while you kind of want to keep this a surprise for Sam, you resign yourself to the fact that you're going to have to text her and ask her to make a stop on her way home.

' _buy marshmallows before you come home plz'_

You get a bunch of question marks in response. ' _humour me_ '

A single letter commits you to following through with your plan: ' _k_ '

Back in the living room, you rearrange everything again, more purposefully this time. When you finish, you take a step back and admire your work. It's a damn fine tent, if you do say so yourself. It's really just a giant pillow fort, but you're going to keep calling it a tent because tonight? Tonight you're going camping.

Yes, it's even more pathetic than camping in your backyard, but it could be fun. Sam deserves something nice after all the crap you've been piling on her. And okay, yes, it isn't exactly a candlelight dinner, but since when have the two of you ever been traditional? As far as you're concerned, at this point? Anything that isn't about the two of you being complete messes counts as 'something nice'.

So you're going to camp in your living room tonight, _and dammit, you're going to have fun while you're doing it._

You've got food locked down. You've got it all covered except for hot dog buns, and you can just substitute bread for that purpose. You've got your skewers, and you've got two thirds of your s'mores. As long as Sam doesn't bail on marshmallow duty, you're set. And your tent is fantastic. To complete it, though, you chuck a few pillows inside and seek out a sleeping bag.

The problem is that the gap in your plan is kind of the crucial component. It isn't camping if you don't burn your food over an open fire. But you can't exactly just set your carpet on fire and hope for the best. You don't have a clear plan, but you've learned how to improvise quite well. You head back to Sam's multipurpose room, and examine the junk corner to see what you can salvage. Maybe Sam still has… You start shifting things around, and it isn't long before you find the fish tank from Sam's short lived attempt at being a pet owner. For the first time, you're glad that she insisted on a fancy tank, one made of complete glass, because the plastic lining that is typical on a fish tank was 'just so ugly'. You tap your knuckles against the side while you squint at the rest of the junk, looking for the lid. You need that mesh. At least the colourful rocks are still rattling about in the tank. After rearranging a few things that were in the vicinity of the tank, the lid is revealed, and this could not be going better. So far. You still need a fire source. And a way to keep the tank off the kitchen floor, where you'll be starting the fire. You don't feel it would be a good idea to just plop heated glass on the tile.

After clearing a spot in the kitchen, you drag your components over and try to put everything together in your head. When you pick up the tank to try and find some inspiration, it feels oddly familiar. It takes you a minute, but when you figure out what it was reminding you of, you jog back to the front door. Your weaponized flower planter was almost the same size as the tank. You fling the door open, grab the planter, give it a few shakes to throw the dirt off to the side, and slam the door shut again. It's not completely dirt-free, but you can wash it. You carry it with you to kitchen and drop it down beside the fish tank. It feels like the big moment of truth as you pick up the tank and hover it over the planter. It looks like it'll fit. You lower it, and it isn't in there snugly, but it's sturdy enough to keep it raised.

You absently hack at the mesh from the tank lid while you ponder exactly how you're going to get this thing burning. There must be something around that's flammable enough. You've got the mesh cut out of the lid and you drop it down into the tank to see how it fits. It's tight enough that it should work. Now that you've finished with that, you start looking through cupboards and closets, trying to come up with at least one idea you can test. You don't know what you're expecting to find when you start looking through all your dinnerware, but when you open the cupboard that holds most of your assorted glasses and mugs, you catch a glimpse of a set of shot glasses in the back. You're rewarded with vivid memories of Sam waving a few sheets of drink recipes at you, insisting on attempting to create successful flaming shots.

You contemplate the glasses, but end up retrieving a set of bowls instead, one of them fitting nicely inside the other. After all your injuries, you know for a fact that you have some fairly strong isopropyl alcohol left over somewhere. You find some in the bathroom, and fill the smaller bowl with it. The larger bowl gets filled with cold water, and you seek out a left over pair of chopsticks from your frequent Chinese takeaway meals. This is still a test and you don't want your hand anywhere near the potential flames when you try to light this. When you find a pair, you snap them apart, and light the end of one on fire. When you touch it to the alcohol, everything goes just as you'd hoped. You're staring at a flaming bowl of alcohol on your kitchen counter. Normally, you'd be horrified, but right now it's the most fantastic thing you think you've ever seen.

You, very carefully, place it in the centre of the flower planter/fish tank combo, and put extra, empty bowls of the same size on either side of it. The mesh gets dropped on top of the bowls, which successfully keep it sitting evenly, and although the bright pink and purple of the tank pebbles ruin the illusion of a proper campfire, you lightly pour them over the mesh anyway. The flame is large enough that it flickers through the pebbles with ease. It isn't burning uncontrollably either. It's quite perfect, you think.

You pour yourself a glass of water, and start pre-skewering the hot dogs when you hear Sam stomp her way in. It's a little excessive, really, and you make a note to bring up the fact that she probably doesn't need to do that anymore. Right now though, you plant yourself beside your unorthodox fire pit and wait to show it off.

After you acknowledge her with a loud hello, Sam starts yelling out about her shopping trip. "Hey, so, I didn't know what you wanted these for, so I went a little overboard and covered all the bases. I've got your good ol' traditional marshmallows, I've got those tiny colourful ones," You can hear the rustle of a shopping bag. "And there were also these weird twisty rainbow ones, that seem pretty useless, but I've got those too. I also bought some apples so I didn't look like a lunatic at the till. I don't know if it really worked because…  _What. The. Hell._ " You assume she's seen your tent. "Oh my god, Lara,  _please_  tell me you didn't destroy the rest of the furniture."

You're almost offended. "You're not looking at it properly! Come here, let me tell you all about what we're doing tonight."

"Riiight." She sounds skeptical, but you hear her heading towards the kitchen anyway. When she walks in, she's in the middle of digging through packages of marshmallows to retrieve what you assume is a bag of apples. "I have no idea what's going on right now, but if you're having some sort of crisis that somehow involves furniture stacking and marshmallows," She triumphantly pulls the apples free, and looks up at your creation. "I have even less of an idea of how to deal with that than- Oh. Wow. Jesus. That's… wow. Ha. Well, fuck. That's. Yeah, that right there is a fire in our kitchen. It's, okay, um." She shuffles backwards a few steps.

You wave your skewered hot dog around. "I thought we could camp? Inside?" You point at the marshmallows that she's carrying. "Er, s'mores?" You're suddenly feeling very stupid. This whole idea  _is_  actually quite pathetic, isn't it?

"Ha. Hah. Wooo. Oh, god. Okay. You've got a little fire there. That looks like a fire." The apples thump on the ground. "That's, gosh, that's quite a fiery fire, isn't it? Look at those flames. Would you just look at that."

"Sam?"

"Hooo-boy, and we're all set to roast some stuff, aren't we? Heh. Wow, that is. Fire. Uh-huh. Okay. Shit. Okay, so it's time for my Captain Obvious statement right now,"

"Your what?"

"Now it's not that I don't, hah, that sure is a nice fire, isn't it? Pretty warm, I bet. It's not that I don't. See, I can't exactly say that I'm a big fan of fire anymore? It's actually maybe kinda really scary. The burning of… things, that is. Well, actually it's more like… Just fire. All of fire."

You feel  _incredibly_  stupid now, but not embarrassed stupid, not anymore. Just stupid stupid.

"And gosh, that is definitely a fire right in front of me, isn't it? Okay, I'm just going to, uh, I don't know what I'm going to. Let's, uh. I'm gonna be honest with you Lara I think I might be panicking a bit right now so I'm just going to stand right here" You grab your glass of water from the counter and pour it on the flames. They sizzle for a moment and start back up. "and try not to vomit if that's okay with you because it really would be a shame to ruin this many marshmallows y'know and it's also not really" You're trying to find something to put the fire out with, but her panic is slightly contagious. "the nicest thing to clean up and yeah I'm actually going to lean against this door here now because I'm feeling a little faint at the moment and I'm not" You're such an idiot, and  _why is there nothing around to put out the fire_? "going to say that it's  _this_  fire's fault I mean it's not like it did anything to me it's just existing but y'see the thing is that it's existing right in front of me and wow I'm gonna just toss these marshmallows away from me" You hiss when you try to pick up the burning hot glass; taking it anywhere is out of the question. "because it would really be a shame to ruin them they are really quite tasty and I do actually want to try those twisty ones I don't know if they're new or" You grab the lid of a pot and pull everything that is in liquid form from the fridge. "if I've never seen them before you'd think I'd have bought them if I'd seen them though and you know what I think I bruised those apples but I think they'll still be edible we've eaten really brown bananas" You dump as much of the liquids into the fire as you possibly can and drop the lid of the pot on top of the tank. "and if we lived to tell that tale then bruised apples are probably fine and Lara I think I need to sit down for a moment but there's a fire between me and a chair and blankets are all" The fire is dying but it hasn't completely stopped. What were you thinking? You start filling the largest bowl you can find with water from the sink. "over the rest of the furniture so I'm just going to have a sit on the floor here if that's okay with you because that there is a fire in our kitchen" You lift the lid, splash the water onto the fire, and slam the lid back down. "ha ha oh gosh it's nice and contained isn't it but golly what a fire it is"  _Finally_ , the fire sizzles to an end. "oh and hey look look at that would you that fire is gone isn't that nice" There isn't much smoke at all, but you start fanning around the area to try and prevent the smoke alarms from going off, just in case. At same time Sam finally starts to slow down her constant ramble. "yup the fire is gone and smoke kinda sucks but I think it's a better alternative to fire don't you it certainly feels like it's better uh huh yes indeedy…" She seems to run out of steam and after a few absolutely hollow and humourless laughs, she takes a deep breath and goes silent.

You would like to punch yourself in the face.

"Sho, the thin' ish tha' I do shorta 'member thin'sh all real-like shomtimeshs. Like wif you at the musheum?" After you coerced Sam to crawl into your tent, she insisted that you retrieve at least one pack of marshmallows for her. She proceeded to wrap herself up in the sleeping bag and is now currently laying on the floor, dropping a steady stream of twisty rainbow marshmallows into her mouth.

You take a bite of the hot dog that you microwaved for far too long, and sigh. "Alright, Sam, I really do want to talk about this with you. But  _please_ , can you chew every once in awhile?" You're sitting up, leaning against an unidentified piece of furniture, and really hoping that Sam will accidentally give you an opening to squish yourself into the sleeping bag with her.

"I shushposhe." The stream of marshmallows stops, and you wait for her to finish the last five or so that she's somehow got wedged into her mouth. She considers the bag while she does so, and then unceremoniously drops it somewhere off to the side. "Y'know, they just taste like regular old marshmallows. Why bother making them all fancy? I'm a little disappointed."

"What exactly did you expect? They're just dyed to be very colourful."

Her hands fly up in the air. "Colourful! Exactly! All rainbowy. I thought that maybe they'd at least taste a little gayer than the plain ol' white ones."

You sigh again, louder this time. "What would that even… tell me, Sam. What exactly does gay taste like?" She's about to respond when you realize the many opportunities you've given her. "Nope! No. Don't answer that. Forget I asked." When she raises her eyebrows at you, faux-displeased, it dawns on you that you're joking about marshmallows instead of actually discussing the minor disaster you just caused. She's too good at this. "Okay, Sam, can we stop avoiding? I know it's hard, but…"

"Yeah, fine. But honestly. I'm disappointed." She stares straight up at the blanket draped above her. "Can we also stop calling this a tent? Because it's really, really not a tent."

" _Sam._ "

"Sorry. It's just hard. This is hard." Your mouth is full, so you hum in agreement. "I don't know- what am I supposed to say? That not only was I tied to a giant Game of Thrones-esque pole with the intent to just be casually lit on fire, but that I also had to watch you get the shit kicked out of you at the same time? Which is something that we've already established as a problem."

"Well, that is pretty accurate. And, uh, understandably a good reason to be put off of fire." You toss your now empty paper plate out of the blanket-tent-fort. "I don't know what tell you, Sam. Just say whatever you want."

You can see her feet bouncing under the sleeping bag. "Word-vomit, then. Great. So… fuck, I don't know." She looks from the blanket, to you, then back up to the blanket. "Okay, uh, can you just, like, listen to what I'm gonna say here? It's- I know exactly what your reaction is going to be, so can you please just try not to interrupt me?"

"Sure?" You're not completely sure what she means by that.

"Fantastic," she drawls in an incredibly unenthusiastic tone. "When we were talking about your flashbacks, or whatever you're calling them? After the whole closet incident? The, uh, the first one."  _Oh, no_. "Don't!" She points at you. "Don't fucking say anything yet. I understand you did what you had to do, I get it. It's fine. But I also maybe understand the bit about begging for your life?" You open your mouth, but you don't have a chance to get any words out. " _Stop._  You said you wouldn't talk. I don't want you to fucking freak out every time the word fire comes up. It's not… it's not  _that_  bad." She's twiddling her thumbs. "Yeah, okay, you're right. It's not exactly comfortable either. And this is the conflict here. Because I tell you that I'm fucked up about fire, you're not going to say a goddamn word about anything that might even involve fire again." She looks back to you again.

You wait in silence until you're sure it's your turn to talk. "I… I probably wouldn't, would I?" Perhaps you've found a loophole for other issues though. "Hey, is it still self-sabotage if I'm doing it for somebody else's sake?"

"Excuse me?"

And you're trying to find excuses again. "Nothing. I shouldn't even… Right, so, what exactly do we do in this situation?"

"That's just it, isn't it? It's like you said, I guess. We went through different things." She releases her iron grip on the sleeping bag, and you crawl into it as she carries on. "Like, you  _do_  need to talk things through, right? But what am I supposed to do with this? I summed it up in what, three sentences? There's nothing to talk about. It's- I don't know. Is this a phobia now?"

As you suspected, the moment you've settled in the sleeping bag with her, she's busy snuggling up against you. Her face in the crook of your neck, of course. You don't know if that's something that you should talk about. She was fine with your hoodie. "Maybe? I think that having flashbacks, or, uh, just panicking that severely might make it something more. God, Sam, I don't know anything about this stuff. Wrong PhD."

"Oh, don't. We need to just start having consultations with the internet, I think."

It's better than nothing. "We can do that. But for now, what do we do here?"

"I guess…" You feel a heavy exhale against your neck. "We just set some sort of boundary? You warn me if you're going to talk about. Uh. If you… if you're going to talk about doing the killing with the fire?"

She's even nervous about asking you to consider her feelings. You hate that. "Please, asking me to be put a little extra thought into what I say? That's the least I can do. You can't- I don't want you to be so afraid of…"  _Me. Please, don't be afraid of me._ "Of saying the wrong thing that you don't say anything at all."

"Yeah." She sounds tired when she says it. "So, then. Just… spoiler alerts if we're going to be talking excessively about fire. And no real fires. For now. Eventually I'm gonna to have to figure out a way to look at a fire without feeling it at my feet."

"Sam." You enable further snuggling (not that you're eager to stop it) and sling an arm over her.

"Maybe I can do the whole immersion therapy thing using that weird fireplace channel on TV."

"Sam, I'm so sorry."

She shrugs, or at least, under the circumstances, does her best approximation of a shrug. "It's whatever. You didn't know. Maybe I should have said something. I would also say that maybe this had to happen, but I don't think that  _starting a fucking fish tank on fire in our kitchen_ is something that had to happen."

You aren't going to disagree.

"So, is this what you were picturing when you were setting all this shit up?"

A laugh escapes you. "You want the truth? I don't actually know what I was thinking. I mean, what  _is_  this? The moment you walked in to see me standing beside a pink and purple aquarium fire, hot dog in hand, I immediately asked myself what the hell I was doing. And that was before the whole fire crisis."

"Is somebody perhaps slightly bored?"

"…Perhaps. There's not much to do when I can't go outside." You'll tell her about what happened later. "And I still want nothing to do with anything in my study, unfortunately."

"Yeah, I can see how you might be a little restless. No Netflix?"

"Wasn't interested today."

"That's good, I guess. I like hearing that. But Lara?"

"Yeah?"

"Just… no more arts and crafts, please."

* * *

_in hell we will all burn brightly, having been there, man, i wish i didn't know_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *I've just very belatedly realized that I've been referencing things from The Conversation Redux that are not at all obvious from the version that's in this (because we can't see what Sam is thinking, obv), so idk if you want to go read it. I'll copypaste a line for an example for you (one regarding/explaining Sam's 'snuggling defence mechanism', although there's more context earlier than that quote), I guess, and then you can decide if you want to go read it, if you haven't already: "You take the opportunity to bury your face into her neck. It's comforting, and it's continued proof that she is indeed still here, in all capacities it seems."
> 
> I have been trying my damndest to fit either a cover or original song by Arden Cho (Sam's VA) into one of these fucking chapters but I think it's impossible so I'm going to just suggest you go to Youtube and at least watch her & Jason Chen's dorky-ass cover (and I say that endearingly, of course) of Shake It Off and just pretend that it's Sam & (probably drunk) Lara (who can't actually sing). A lovely contrast to Angst City over here.
> 
> Anywho, it was really great trying to figure out how the fuck Lara was going to light the fire. What I actually mean is no, it sucked and I wrote around that part as well as a little bit of the next chapter before I came up with something that kinda makes sense.
> 
> ***DON'T START YOUR FISH TANK ON FIRE. THERE IS A SAFE WAY TO MAKE AN INDOOR GLASS FIREPIT BUT I HAD TO IMPROVISE BECAUSE LARA WOULDN'T JUST HAPPEN TO HAVE ALL OF THE REQUIRED SHIT LAYING AROUND. THIS IS A BASTARDIZED COMBINATION OF ABOUT THREE DIFFERENT WAYS TO START AN INDOOR FIRE. PLEASE DON'T BURN YOUR HOUSE DOWN.***
> 
> ahem.
> 
> So yeah, I think I'd be a little fucked up about fire if somebody had essentially tried to, y'know, burn me at the stake. Just saying.
> 
> alternative dubstep song for this chapter, because i am trash™: Reasons by Project 46 feat. Andrew Allen
> 
> Next time: do people still assume that i'm going to have chapter names decided on time anymore or 
> 
> \-------  
> how much is that lara in the window?
> 
> the one with the ptsd
> 
> how much is that lara in the window
> 
> oh, i do hope she'll end up happy  
> \-------


	13. The Safe Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, shit. Sounds like we’re stuck with each other, huh?”
> 
> You don’t respond, but you’re still pressed against her, and you hope she can feel your smile.

"Y'know, this part of your little date night isn't all that bad." Sam reaches up and traces an invisible constellation in your blanket-sky. "I don't mind it in here at all."

You smile. At least one thing has ended up decent today. But the longer you lay snuggled in your sleeping bag with Sam, the more you start thinking about your realization earlier in the day. It's been following you around since then.

You don't want to ask this question.

You do, though. "Sam?" You're well aware that you'll likely ruin the rest of the night with this. "Are you scared of me?"

She pushes herself away from you, as much as she can while confined in the sleeping bag. You take that as a bad sign. When you look at her face though, she just looks lost. "What?" She squints and shakes her head slightly, in confusion, it seems. "I don't- Where and when did you get that idea? Seriously, why would you think that?"

"It's just," You shrink into yourself slightly. "I… I got really angry about something today."

"What? Lara, what happened?"

"And yesterday, I was yelling at you, and… I just. Twice in the same amount of days. That I've noticed, at least. I don't know if I've been… I just noticed it today, and I don't know if I've been like this all along. If it's why you're so afraid of saying something wrong."

She's looks like she can't believe what you've just said. Which might be good, you're not sure at this point. "Do you scare me? Sweetie, you almost died saving me. After all that, you're going to what? Hurt me?"

That non-answer doesn't sit right with you. "You didn't answer my question."

She sighs and shuffles back towards you, putting the two of you nose to nose. It makes it almost impossible to look away from her. "Are you scary? Yeah, maybe. Men twice your size ran from you, in fear. Am  _I_  scared of you? No. Of course I'm not. You can get a little intense when you get upset, sure, but what am I supposed to be afraid of? Should I be worried you're going to go into some blind rage or something? Because I'm not. Am I doing something wrong by trusting you?"

You can barely manage a whisper. "But that one time, I-"

"Overreacted when I surprised you? And then immediately broke down into a shivering wreck when you caught yourself seconds later?" You try your best to avoid her eyes as much as possible. "It was an accident. You had barely been home, you couldn't have just switched off your instincts immediately. I know that. I thought you did, too. You still haven't, entirely. And that's fine." You're not convinced. "Lara, you barely touched me before you stopped yourself. You can control yourself. You aren't- I'm going to repeat myself, here- you aren't running around all stabby-stabby psycho style."

"But you were wary of me after. After that happened. Um, when I got frustrated about not being able to concentrate? And that disaster of a talk… I lost it. Then when we went shopping. Outside that first store. Inside the last one. I've been getting angry. And then this morning." You're apparently incapable of full sentences. "Probably more."

"Okay, so evidently something other than your Martha Stewart survival hour happened today that we need to talk about. But first, you do remember that I got at least as… irate as you did when we talked? Actually, I was slightly annoyed with you right from the beginning, and I'm not going to get into it now, but I  _am_  sorry for that. Second, I was cautious because I didn't want to accidentally surprise you again. I'm pretty sure that you were actually more upset about it than I was. I didn't want to see you break down like that again. Alright?" After you make a noncommittal noise, she shuffles around, resting her chin on the top of your head, and she's almost reversed your regular roles. You're fine with that, and you press your face into her shoulder. It  _is_  comforting, which isn't really breaking news, but you understand why she defaults to doing the same.

"I just- I tried to go outside and it didn't go well. That's not what I'm concerned about right now, though." It feels like she's being evasive, but you're also so focused on your question that you might just be paranoid about it. "But how do you know I can control myself? At the shops… what if you hadn't been there? I don't know what I might have done."

She takes her time before replying, and when she eventually does speak, her voice is about as gentle as you've ever heard it. "Lara, what you just said; I want to point out that you just said that you didn't know what you might have done if I wasn't there with you. Which sounds an awful lot like you're telling me that my presence was something that helped you stay in control. Does that sound about right?"

"…It does."

"Good." She sighs. It doesn't sound like it's out of annoyance, but it doesn't sound sad either. "So, then, if that's true, why should I be afraid of you? If I was the one who kept you from… whatever it was that you thought you were going to do, why in the world should I be afraid of you?"

"I…" You remember your earlier analogy, and what she's saying clicks. "You're my blanket."

"Uh. Sure." Perhaps you should have clarified that. "Lara, the  _only time_  I feel completely safe is when I'm with you.  _That's_  what scares me. That you could go away. And y'know, the more and more time we spend together… trying to fix ourselves, the more I realize how irrational that might be. But my brain still constantly warns me to watch what I say around you, and I don't know how to rewire that. I still have that fear lingering that I might scare you away, but it's gotten less severe, at least. I mean," She chuckles. "I can speak in proper sentences more often, and I can say those sentences without feeling like I'm about to have a stroke. So, no, Lara." She flops a leg over yours and momentarily leans back to place a quick kiss on your forehead. "You don't scare me. You're my safe place."

She sounds sincere, but silence lingers over the two of you, as you aren't quite sure what to say. She's the same to you, and you want to explain the blanket thing, but you don't know how to do that without sounding stupid. You end up with more time to think about it though, when Sam picks up where she left off.

"I always thought that sounded so fucking weird, y'know?" She stops to laugh. "When people would say that other people were places to them? Stuff like 'you're my home', right? I always thought it was  _so_  weird. Didn't make sense to me." There's a fairly long silence again before she laughs once more. "But then you happened."

Suddenly, you don't care if you sound stupid or not. " _Security_  blanket, Sam. I realized that today, that you're my security blanket. Well, security human." Her chin taps your head when she nods. "Sounds a  _little_  sillier than a place, even. But I'm safer when you're with me."

"Well, shit. Sounds like we're stuck with each other, huh?"

You don't respond, but you're still pressed against her, and you hope she can feel your smile.

For quite some time, you lay together under your fake night sky, before you tell her, "I wanted to go out and buy some food. For lunch. It was more that we have nothing in the fridge, but still, I thought I could go out."

"Mhm."

You don't know if she's aware just how much it means to you that, when you  _do_  decide to tell her something, she listens to you without any judgement. She just listens and when you're done, she helps you put back any pieces of you that were broken. "I barely made it past the doorframe. Once I did, I ended up sitting on the step. My brain started, and wouldn't stop. It was- I was barely able to push myself to sit on that step, and there I was, sitting and watching the rest of the world exist. Easily, and comfortably exist. Superficially, at least."

Sam sighs again. It's sad, this time. "Right?"

"It feels so unfair, Sam. There was this woman, just jogging down the street. Like it was simply a daily routine. A routine, like I had. Before. And it felt  _so unfair_  that she was allowed that, and I'm not, not anymore. I was angry at her. I was angry at her, and I don't know a thing about her. And that's what's actually unfair, isn't it? What right do I have to judge her like that?"

"You're allowed to be angry, Lara. I don't think it was actually her that you were angry with, though." A thumb brushes against your cheek. "You understand me?"

You do. You said it to her yesterday; it's the whole situation that angers you. Seems you're just taking it out on other people. "I suppose. So, I was already angry about that, although I  _was_  trying to ignore it. While I was doing that, though, somebody's dog barked. I… overreacted?"

"Yeah? How so?" She doesn't say it like a condemning question. She says it because she knows you need the gentle push to keep talking.

"It startled me, I guess. Got defensive." That damn planter caused two crises today. "The, uh, the flowers that we had on the step? You, know, the ones in the planter? I was basically ready to bash somebody's head in with the planter. I obviously couldn't find my bow or guns, and it was the closest thing to me. …I may have also killed the flowers."

"Might you also have set fire to them?"

Trust her to actually notice that. "It might have perhaps paved the way to firestarting, yes. But when I realized what I was doing, I freaked out. There were a few things going on in my head, but mostly I was angry… and I overreacted  _again._  And then I basically sat on the ground, being mad about things. Got up when I decided I didn't want you to come home to that." Now, though, you almost wish you had stayed there. "Although, an angry Lara on the floor might have been better than an overenthusiastic fire starting Lara."

"Mm." She rolls away from you, and pulls your hand up. You ball it into a fist. "Any of that have to do with this?" She taps the bandaid on your knuckle.

You chew on your bottom lip, and don't even bother responding. Your guilty look is enough.

"Wasn't going to say anything, but since you're telling me about it now…" You cringe when she peels the bandaid off. "Yeah, this is too fresh. And about the size of the little smudge of blood on the door." Unintentionally, you clench your fist tighter. "Your aim was high. Eye level."

She doesn't sound upset in the slightest. Still, you're embarrassed and you tuck your head down slightly.

"Woah, hey. Lara. It's okay. One little slip.  _Little_." You still feel guilty about it. "You didn't hurt anybody." A moment passes before she kisses the scrape and gives you your hand back. "Anything else?"

You don't know if she's talking about your knuckle, or just in general. You can't tell from her tone, and since you're not looking at her, it's all you have to go on. Even if she has noticed, you're not going to tell her that you were picking at it. You feel oddly ashamed about it, you can't quite figure out why, though. "Not really. Started building the fire when I got up."

"Alright." She knows. And she knows about your side. That you've been picking at it a lot, at the very least. It's the correlation between the two that shames you. That's what it is. Why that is though, you don't know. "Don't beat yourself up over this, Lara. Please. None of this, not the fire, not the anger, not your hand. Shit happens. The reason we're like this right now is because shit happened."

"Okay."

She inhales deeply and rolls back onto her side to face you again, although you've still got your head tucked down. "That wasn't the most convincing agreement, but I'll take it, I guess. So, uh," She looks up at the blanket sky, then at the sleeping bag, and the back to you. "It  _is_  nice in here, but we don't have to actually sleep out here, do we? The floor's kinda uncomfortable, long term."

You came to that same conclusion, earlier. When you straighten back out and finally look up at her, she's just watching you, a lazy smile on her face. You don't understand why you deserve this. You scootch closer to her, and quickly kiss the tip of her nose, then push yourself as far away as you can from her while still confined in the sleeping bag. "Yeah, and this thing just doesn't have enough space, does it? I can't stand all the cuddling."

"It  _is_  quite horrible. I might catch your cooties."

You may as well have taken the sleeping bag to bed with you, as Sam is snuggled into your side while you lay on your back, watching the ceiling again. Although you were joking, you are actually slightly uncomfortable now, as the way the Sam's draped her arm over you has left her hand resting on your stitches. You don't mind when she occasionally runs her fingers over a scar or two, but this? This makes you feel like you're lying to her, even though you haven't said a word. You look away from the ceiling and gaze at her hand instead. "I…" You keep staring at her hand. "My…" Why can't you just tell her? You told her, step by step, how you murdered a man, but you can't tell her that you pulled out your own stitches? By accident. Plus there's the fact that she's already aware that you've been tugging at them. "I- I…" You don't even really know what you're trying to say. Right now, all you want is to start saying it. "It's…"

Sam's hand moves out of your sight, and shortly after you feel it nudging your chin, prompting you to look at her. You do, and she looks concerned. "Lara. What is it?"  _The fact that you tried to start this discussion_. But you've stammered too much to brush it off. "What's wrong?"

"I…" You can't. Not yet, at least. You just can't. You let the syllable hang in the air while you try to think of any alternative. "You never judge me." It's the first thing you think of, because she probably wouldn't, if you could get it together long enough to tell her. "Never."

She does her confused head shake again, and sits up. "Do you want me to?" There's a pause before her face and voice go faux-stern. "You're asking me some weird questions today, Lara. Why? What's up with that? How dare you even think about asking these questions." She brushes some hair from your face, drops her act and smiles. "How's that? Good enough?"

"No, no, it's not that I want- I mean, maybe I deserve it, but… you don't. Judge me." You push yourself up, so you're sitting with her. "And that wasn't really a question, by the way." She rolls her eyes. "I was alone with my head all day, Sam. With my brain, the one that I'm trying to start using properly again. When I think of something, it sticks with me, until I randomly blurt it out at you, apparently." Not that you actually thought of this until Sam was home with you, and not that you meant to bring it up at all.

"Fair enough." She crosses her legs and props her head up with her palm, tilting to look at you. "So… do you judge me, then?"

"For what?"

She shrugs. "Dunno. Anything."

"Hm." You slide down the headboard until you're laying down again. "That corduroy sofa."

"I thought it was my job to make the shitty jokes?" She leans sideways to bump you, which doesn't quite work properly, and she ends up flopping back down beside you. Her brow creases when she asks you, "But really, why are you so worried tonight? Did I do something? I didn't… did I do something?"

"No! God, no." Great job you've done here, making her doubt herself now. "The furthest from that, Sam. I swear. I'm just… I'm thinking too much."

"Mm," is her neutral response.

"I  _promise_  you, you didn't do anything wrong. Or say anything wrong. I did."

"Uh, when? I think it might be my call on that, not yours. Because I don't recall you making any sort of mistake."

You can't hold back your scoff. "Yeah, sure. Other than this entire day."

She raises her eyebrows, and looks legitimately displeased with you. "Thought we knew that accidents aren't always the same as mistakes."

"Yeah, okay." You turn your face away for a moment to think. If you can't actually get the words out about what you did, maybe you can at least tell her that you were trying to say something different. When you look back at her, you sigh. "C'mere." She scoots over and uses your chest as a pillow. "That wasn't actually what I was going to tell you."

"Huh?"

You curl a protective arm around her. "You heard me. I tried to start, what? Four statements? I was going to… I  _want_  to tell you, but I can't."

She starts tracing a pattern on your stomach. You don't know if it's on purpose, or not. "You just told me that I don't judge you, though."

"I judge me. The thing about it, though, is that it's so insignificant compared to… well, most of what I've already told you about. I try… but I can't get the words out. I'm sorry."

"Oh." It feels like her finger is burning that pattern into your skin. She traces, over and over, and then over again, before she quietly asks, "So, is it like when you r-r-r-r-r-really should have been more careful? With stretching, or whatever?" She says it so casually.

You freeze. Completely. You even forget to breathe, for a moment.

Her hand stops tracing, and she splays it flat across your abdomen. "Yeah." You can't tell, you  _cannot_  for the life of you tell how much she knows. "Is it anything urgent?"

It's a good question, actually. It probably isn't. You haven't caused any other damage, and your hand was just a coincidence. "I don't think so."

"Then take your time. From what I understand, this isn't a race."

"Right." You can't argue, you're the one who told her that. "I'm sorry."

"Hey." She flips over, so she's facing you instead of your feet. "Lara, enough. I don't even know what you're apologizing for. You didn't tell me." You don't intend to say anything, but she silences you with a finger over your lips, again. "So no more, tonight. Okay?" You nod, and she withdraws. "So, 'tell me about your day' doesn't exactly work in our situation, but can we stick with that concept? Just… whatever-talk for the rest of the night."

"Sure, whatever."

She rolls her eyes at your, and flips back over. "Funny."

Since she isn't looking at you anymore, you rest your head back and look up. "I know I said we could redecorate. I mean, I wasn't quite all here when I brought it up, but we still can. If you want. But we can't change the ceiling tiles, yeah?"

"Uh, okay. I don't know why we'd go that excessive, but yeah, they can stay."

"I just- I really like them."

She tilts her head to look up at them. They're plain, nothing special. "Yeah, I guess they're alright." Nothing special to most people, at least. "But you're right, we do need a new couch, at the very least. Should we internet it, or do you wanna…"

It's obvious what she's asking. You don't really want to, but you  _should_. "Yeah, I- I want to try, I guess. I have to, don't I? But can we… can we go out really early? It doesn't have to be super early, just early enough to get out before all the normal people. Or really late? I know there won't really be anything good late, but there'll be less people, and if there are less people then I might-"

"Shush. We can go early. Or we can go late. We'll go to a hundred different Larry'ses, if you want. We can even go buy that corduroy monstrosity, if that ends up being what's best." You can't see it, but you can hear her smirk. "Really, Lara, I understand why you might have a slight obsession about it, but I couldn't give less of a shit about what ends up in the living room. As long as it doesn't have blood on it." You glance down at your side while she starts her rearrangement routine and as usual, ends up half on top of you, predictably resting her head on your shoulder. "What I do give a shit about is  _you_. What we end up sitting on? It's nothing. It means absolutely nothing to me. But you? You mean everything."

You believe her. God, you  _do_  believe her, and you feel the same way, the same and more. You're completely blank on what to say, though. You seem to be at a loss for words for a lot of things today.

"And y'know, that couch was awesome. It was great, but I can't say that I was in love with it. You're the one that I save those words for." She rolls so that she's completely on top of you, her forehead against yours. "You  _are_  aware of that, right?"

Opting out of allowing words to fail you again, you tilt your chin up to kiss her, in a way that you hope says 'Yeah. Yeah, I am'. When you're satisfied that you've got your message across, you end up smiling against her lips. "Actually, I really quite liked that sofa, Sam." Her head pulls back and she blankly blinks at you as your grin grows wider. "Buuut… I really  _really_  quite like you a lot more."

She beams back down at you. The thing with Sam, is that the words aren't the most important to her. You'd love to be more eloquent, to not be at a loss for what to say. But in the end? All she  _does_  care about is what the words end up meaning. Her smile turns into a chuckle. "Fucking dork." She, of course, has her own vernacular that you've learned to translate. You give her one last quick peck on the lips and she shuffles around again, just enough to comfortably rest her head below your chin. "So, that wasn't very whatevery. Nice job changing the subject." You shake your head, make an annoyed grumble at her. It's probably what makes her laugh as she says, "Now, let's talk colours."

You do, and it makes you wonder what exactly happened to simple ol' ROY G BIV.

Sam's been up and moving around for long enough that she's probably nearly ready to head out for the day. You, on the other hand, are just finishing breakfast. Which probably means it's too late for her to agree to this. "Hey Sam?"

She appears in front of you, much quicker than you expected, and you jump when she blurts at you, " _Yes_ , I will bring more food products home today."

"Thanks?" You  _were_  a little whiney earlier, when you were attempting to breakfast up something other than hot dogs and reject-potato hash browns. "But I was actually going to ask you: Do you have some sort of, I don't know, bring-your-Lara-to-work day?"

She slumps a little, and for a moment you're concerned you've grown a second head, the way she's looking at you. "Uh, I'm sorry, but what?"

A nervous laugh escapes you. "Yeah." She's still staring at you, as 'yeah' is not in any way an explanation. "I, well, I thought that I should maybe try to start being productive again. A little bit." She's still staring. "Eh… yesterday made it somewhat obvious that I need to fill my time somehow." Staring. You awkwardly click your tongue and hope for her to do something else. She doesn't. "I could help you? With… stuff? I don't know exactly what I could do, but…"

Finally, she stops staring. Instead, she covers her face with a hand and sighs as she slowly drags it down, bringing you back into your sight. "You're? Now? You're asking me this  _right now_? As I'm in the process of heading out the door?" A hand runs through her hair. "Lara Croft, you are infuriating."

You shrink down in your chair slightly. "Uh, right, you may have mentioned that before." You may have perhaps made a mistake in asking this question.

"Yup." She sighs again and shakes her head. "You're fucking lucky that you're infuriating  _and_  cute. But sweetie, really, don't you think trying to get back at your studies would be more helpful. When all is said and done? You could try that."

You glance away. She's right. But you don't know where your concentration is at right now, and you've come to the conclusion that the fact that your big discovery was an absolute disaster is something that is  _not_  helping your desire to get back to your books. It's time to channel that doggie in the window, and you turn back to Sam with your best sad puppy eyes. "I guess I could  _try_ …"

Sam throws her arms up, limply. "You little fucking shit. Now I wish you weren't so cute." You throw in a smile. "Oh, fuck off with that, you've won. I'll see if I can get in contact with one of those old scholarly farts that I mentioned. Again, no offence." She leans in to get right up in your face. "The rules; you stay here until I actually have something for you. If you tag along with me all willy-nilly, I don't know what kind of attention you might attract, one of the lingering tabloid assholes might catch a glimpse of you and god knows what would happen then. You understand, right?" You nod, and a gentle smile appears on her face before she lightly flicks your nose. "And while you're here, you do not set anything on fire."

"That's fair. I'm, uh," You look up and away while you apologize. "I'm sorry. That I asked out of nowhere. I'm just-" You pause, try to think of a better way to phrase it. You come up with nothing. "Sam, I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know."

"No, no." The Look flashes across her face, and is gone in a blink. "It's okay. I get it. But Lara, you do know that I probably won't be able to be with you the entire time you're out?"

You hadn't really thought about that, actually, and you briefly reconsider. But you need to do things without her. Even though every time you've already tried to do things without her ended badly. You feel like a child as you mutter, "Um, you'll… sometimes. Be around? I won't be completely alone?"

She sighs once more, sadly. "I will. I just won't be able to sit with you and old fart, probably." There's a pause, and she hesitates before saying, "Lara, do you think that maybe we should actually think about…" Another pause. "Never mind. Just- forget that." You should be able to do so, as you don't know what 'that' was. "I'll phone you, okay? When I figure something out." She swiftly leans in to kiss your forehead before turning to leave. She stops herself after a few steps, though, and turns to look at you one more time. The Look is fully on her face. "Maybe look at a map. Or two. Read an article. Give _something_  a try?" She shrugs, and looks apologetic. "Hey," Her smile is back when she finishes. "Love you."

"Love you, too. Double." You nod at the door. "I'll talk to you later, then?"

"I'll find you a fart, don't you worry." She smirks. "Later."

And then she's gone.

You get up, head over to The Sofa, and drop down. Sam doesn't need to look at you like that. You know you're fucked up. You know that- you just told her that you don't know what you're doing. Sometimes, times like right now, you feel like the only thing that you  _do_ know, other than how broken you are, is that you love her. You told her that as well.

She, for all intents and purposes, now knows exactly what you know. And suddenly, what you know feels completely insubstantial. One piece of that information is important, sure.

But there's so much to relearn.

* * *

_i don't know what's going on, i am so in deep with you_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I edited this into last chapter, quite late, so here it is again:
> 
> *I've just very belatedly realized that I've been referencing things from The Conversation Redux that are not at all obvious from the version that's in this (because we can't see what Sam is thinking, obv), so idk if you want to go read it. I'll copypaste a line for an example for you (one regarding/explaining Sam's 'snuggling defence mechanism', although there's more context earlier than that quote), I guess, and then you can decide if you want to go read it, if you haven't already: You take the opportunity to bury your face into her neck. It's comforting, and it's continued proof that she is indeed still here, in all capacities it seems.
> 
> And I do hope that other references to earlier chapters that I'm making are being caught? Hopefully? [there's one really glaring one please tell me it's obvious] There's also one thing from The Conversation Redux that I could clarify here but I don't know if I want to yet...
> 
> can u tell somebody was having moodswings while they wrote this
> 
> That's also why this is so short, comparatively. Could have been more, but this felt like an okay place to split it.
> 
> The meaning of words are more important to Sam than the actual words. Wonder why she's so worried she might say the wrong thing.
> 
> ...I'm really fucking tired.
> 
> What's coming up? more fictional characters being sad in an unnamed chapter
> 
> *we also got endgame coming up. couple more chapters, i think. i've finally figured out how the fuck to get back to my original planned ending, after accidentally veering away from it. also, i feel like i should finish this up before rottr because... just because.


	14. The Bullet Point List

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It takes her a minute, but when she notices that you aren’t following her, Sam appears at the window of your seat of the car. She just so happens to catch you leaning forward, cradling your head in your hands. Having a bit of a pity party as well as a slight crisis. You look up at her when she opens your door.
> 
> “I wouldn’t do that. You know that, right?"

Sam managed to find you one of those scholarly old farts rather quickly. So now she’s leading your through a building, with the intention of sticking you in a room with the aforementioned old fart. It’s not a busy place, not crawling with people, which is nice. You do notice, though, that every time somebody passes by and politely greets you, Sam jumps a little at their voice. The further into the building you get, the stiffer her return greetings get. You’ve just been silently smiling back at them, so you don’t feel that you’re in a position to fault her. It does however, in a strange way, make you feel slightly better seeing actual evidence that she struggles too. It feels horrible but… it also makes you feel less alone. More validated?

She ushers you into a cramped room, where you sit down on a wobbly chair. When she leaves to find Old Fart, you occupy yourself with nervously tapping your foot, something you’ve clearly learned from Sam. You can’t stop the tapping, even after she returns with an older gentleman. You try to smile, but it feels like you might be grimacing instead.

Turns out that Old Fart is actually only interested in the archeology bits of things. You’re not even sure if he knows all the stories surrounding your trip. After an extremely quick internal debate, you decide that it would be best to describe everything to him in the state that it was before you, well, destroyed it. So, you tell him what the island was like, the details of some of the areas. He doesn’t pry for anything, and doesn’t ask provoking questions like Twenty Qs did. It’s a huge relief. In fact, he’s a rather kind old fart, and you’re actually quite enjoying talking to him.

Until he asks you if there’s any way that you could possibly take him to see everything you recovered from Yamatai.

“Uh, well.” You have no idea what to tell Old Fart, and you’d rather save your stuttering and stammering for Sam. “I- I’ll have a public exhibit set up, eventually.” It’s a weak excuse, but it’s the best you can think of, on the spot.

He brings up the fact that earlier, you had mentioned that you were taking your time with that. It’s true, but it’s also another excuse. You’re starting to panic, ever so slightly, because if you keep making terrible excuses, they're just going to pile up on each other. And if you continue to panic, Old Fart is probably going to think there’s something wrong with you. Which isn’t wrong, you suppose, but you’d rather avoid it. You need a consultant. “I should, er, I’ll have to go talk to my… Sam? About that.” You’ll also need to sound a hell of a lot more professional than that, and you cringe at your wording before fleeing the room.

Instead of finding Sam, you find the nearest washroom, and hide away in a stall. You pull out your phone, and call Sam, because you don’t think you can handle waiting and watching the little dots when as she texts back.

“Lara, hey! How’s it going so far?”

“Listen, Sam, I’m in the bathroom.” You tell her that, as if it’ll explain everything.

There’s a slight pause before she replies. “Oh-kay. That’s, uh, great that you’re working on your multitasking, I guess? But how about you phone me back in a minute or two?”

You hiss at her, “ _Sam!_ I don’t know what to do.” Another pause, and you sigh. “Jesus, Sam, I’m in the bathroom, hiding. Because I’m freaking out. Because I don’t know what to do.”

“ _Oh_. Okay. Okay, uh, what’s the issue? Can I help?”

Hopefully. “Right, so, Old Fart wants… I don’t know, a little tour of what I’ve got in the museum. And I may have accidentally given some unfortunate excuses that aren’t really going to work.”

You can hear her suck in a breath between her teeth. “Yikes. Okay, so just to check; we don’t want to do this, right?”

Your reply is a drawn out groan.

“Good, good, we’re on the same page. Wait, what did you tell him? You just tell him you had to pee, or?”

It would be nice if eye rolls could be translated over the phone. “I told him I had to talk to you about it. Literally. Which also leads to: what am I calling you? I word-for-word told him that I had to go ‘talk to my Sam about it’. _That’s what I told him_.”

“Oh my god.” She’s smothered her snickering well, but you still pick up on it. You can’t really blame her. “Yeah, that doesn’t work, does it? I don’t know. Just call me your manager or something, if you’re fine with that.”

“Manager.” She pretty much does actually manage you, at this point. You’re fine with it. “Got it. So I’m talking to you about it now, and I _really_ need you to tell me what to do.”

“Lara, now that you’re my client, I would like to advise you that I am a terrible manager.”

“Oh, for the love of god, Sam, I need to go tell him _something._ Preferably sometime soon.” The line is silent, other than the sound of Sam clicking her tongue as she thinks. “Wait,” You’ve possibly come up with a compromise. “You said that _we_ don’t want to do this. If I say yes to him, will you come with me?”

“I can do that, yeah. I don’t know what I would do to help, but, sure.”

“Just being there will do enough to help, trust me. Thank you.”

“Alright. If you’re sure. Let me figure out when to set this up. I’ll attempt ‘soon’. Tell Old Fart I’ll call him again, okay?”

“Sure.”

It’s great that you’ve convinced her to trust you. You’re just going to have to convince yourself now. You give yourself a couple more minutes to work on that, while you take a few deep breaths. Your hands have almost stopped tremoring by the time you go back to finish up your talk with Old Fart.

At least you didn’t puke, this time.

“So, how’d it go? Like, overall.” Sam is weaving alarmingly through traffic again. It’s as if she has some strange compulsion to constantly change lanes.

****“Overall? I’d say it was pretty decent. All Old Fart was interested in was actual archeology. Which was a relief, I suppose. I basically just told him about how things were on the island, like the structures and whatnot. Before we made a mess of everything.”

“Ah. So we’re hoping he doesn’t go for a visit any time soon? Wouldn’t want him to think you were telling lies.” She turns and points at you, giving you a disapproving stare. You point, more urgently, towards the windshield. “I can’t have my clients giving me a bad reputation.”

“Would you shut up about that? You know, you keep making fun of me, and I can claim harassment. Then what would you do?”

“Harass you more, until you dropped the case?”

“Seriously? Wow, you really _are_ a terrible manager.” Her hands fly up in a ‘so what?” gesture and yours flail at the steering wheel. “Anyway, I did pretty good otherwise. I think. I was sort of distracted when I went back after I called you, but I don’t know if he noticed.”

“Honestly? Fuck whatever he thinks. I’m proud of you for taking another little step.”

“You do remember that we’re meeting him at the museum tomorrow?”

She shrugs. “So? Still doesn’t matter what he thinks.”

“Wow. Okay.” You try to deadpan, but her bluntness is a little _too_ blunt, and you can’t keep from laughing. “Should I be worried about how you’ve been dealing with my publicity stuff?”

She grins at you “I _told you_. I’m terrible.” After she stops at an intersection, she starts tapping the steering wheel. “Alright, decision time now. I know I told you I’d bring food products home, but that was before I knew you were coming along for the ride. Are you up to try a grocery trip?”

The idea doesn’t appeal to you at all, and you deflate a little. “I- I don’t…”

Sam must notice your tone, because she interjects. “C’mon, Lara, don’t get like that. It’s okay if you don’t want to. Don’t gotta do it all at once, remember? Wanna just get a pizza?”

“Yeah.” You sigh.

Very deliberately, she looks around, like she’s making sure that nobody else is near, and starts talking in an exaggerated whisper. “Hey? You wanna know a secret? I was hoping you’d say no. I didn’t want to go either. I don’t have the energy to deal with coupon clippers right now. Might end up accidentally clipping _them_.” When you don’t respond, she looks at you again, a serious expression on her face. “I am _not_ disappointed. Please don’t get that going in your head again, okay?”

“Yeah.” A smile creeps onto your face. “No disappointment. Got it.”

“Good. No green peppers, either?”

You snort. “If you insist.”

Sam not only gets her way with the green peppers, she also convinces you to buy an all meat pizza with extra cheese. She’s says it’s delicious, but you look at it and see a heart attack. It’s the first time in awhile that you eat supper without any sort of incident and/or early enough to maybe actually have a completely pleasant evening.

But why would you want that? When Sam asks if you have any suggestions on how to waste some time, _why_ you say what you say is beyond you. “Should we get the next bit of the camera over with?”

She blinks. “You’re joking.”

“Uh.” You stand up to start putting leftover pizza away, to stall. “Maybe? I actually didn’t really think that through, before I said it, to be honest.” She stays put when you head to the kitchen with the pizza remains.

When you return, Sam’s got the camera in her hand, and she evidently went into some ninja mode while you were busy, because you didn’t hear her move. She holds it out to you. “Take that moment to actually think about it. Do you _really_ want to do this?”

You look at the camera. No, you really do not want to do this. “If you’re okay with it.” You’re going to have to eventually, though, and there’s no better time than the present. Especially when you’re trying to get yourself out of the past and back into the present.

She eyes you warily. “You have to promise me that you won’t freak out. I don’t mind if you get upset, that’s probably inevitable. But I don’t want you to ruin the day you’ve had. This can wait, I don’t want you to have even a mild breakdown again just because you’re trying to push yourself too far, too fast.

“I’m pretty sure I know what’s going to be on there. You know too, and I think that’ll help.”

“Are. You. Sure?” Each word is enunciated distinctly.

You take another look at the camera. “Go set up your rat’s nest of cables.”

She still looks cautious. “Alright…”

After she leaves to go find all the necessary cables, you stop resisting the urge to pick at your stitches.

When everything is set up and you’re on The Sofa, she hesitates with the remote. “Ready?”

_No._ “Yes.”

The screen flicks on, and there’s a half second of static before the image of the ground, moving rather fast, appears. You hear camera-you grunt, and when the camera swings up to film a wall, you know why it has the momentum to do so. “Yeah. This is it.”

“Okay.”

The camera stays relatively steady for a moment as you hear legible Russian, which quickly turns into a yelp of pain. Immediately, the camera swings back again. You can't even tell what direction it’s going when you hear two simultaneous grunts, one from camera-you, the other in a much lower octave. You watch the ground jerk around, hear the sound of a gun cocking, and then the camera flips. It must have landed flat, because it’s pointing straight forward. Feet come into view. “Oh no. No.” The angle the camera is at…

The picture pauses, and Sam turns to you. “What?”

“No, it’s nothing.” You would like for this to finish, so you gesture at the screen. Sam doesn’t touch the remote, and you sigh. “I don’t like how the camera is pointing.”

You watch as she opens her mouth, and then closes it, stopping her immediate response. Instead of whatever she was intending to say, she asks you again. “You’re sure?”

You glance at the screen and then back to Sam. “Yeah. Yeah. Just- if the camera stays how it is…”

“I’ll be fine.” She hits play.

There’s barely a moment before a gunshot sounds, and you close your eyes briefly when some blood sprays past the camera. Sam looks over at you and you nod towards the TV. “Not done.”

A leg is taking up most of the screen, and blood is dripping down it. The camera rocks slightly, but still doesn’t move. The leg _does_ move, and between that and the grunting you can hear, it’s evident that a struggle is occurring. Time was nothing to you at that moment, so you have no idea how long it’ll be before _it_ happens. The struggle continues for a few more seconds before you hear the second gunshot, and blood splats in front of the camera again, along with a few other bits that you hope Sam doesn’t identify. Then, the image jerks violently, before swaying to a stop. You’ve been holding your breath since the gunshot, you realize, and you release it in relief when you see that the camera only has a view of the lower half of his body. It stays steady for a moment, and then starts swinging again, around the same time you hear camera-you gasp and sob a few times. That throws you for a moment. It’s a huge difference from actively yelling death threats. The thought of how you’ve changed makes your stomach wobble, and you fend off nausea as camera-you retches a few times. The camera is pointing down at the ground and switches off mid-retch. You swallow air in an attempt to stop yourself from retching right now.

“You shot him in the dick?”

That completely pulls you back from your thoughts. “That’s what you have to say? After what we just watched, _that’s_ what you have to say?”

“I’m just saying. That would probably _really_ hurt”

You catch on to what she’s trying to do, and give her a knowing look. “We’re back to bad jokes now?”

She shrugs. “It made you stop dwelling on it, for a moment.”

“I guess.”

She watches you for a moment, and sighs as she drops sideways, ending up laying with her head in your lap. “You had to do it. I know it’s not black and white like that for you, but… you had to. You wouldn’t be here right now if you hadn’t. That’s the only way I see it. Maybe it shouldn’t be that simple. It obviously isn’t for you, and I understand that. But it’s pretty fucking simple for me, Lara. Because I need you here with me. Everything you did, that’s what led to you being able to sit on this couch with me, right now. You being here justifies everything for me, and that might be fucking awful on my part, but I don’t really care.”

You’re simultaneously relieved and uncomfortable. “I’ll change.”

“Huh?”

“I’ll change.” You look down at her. “If we keep watching, I’m going to change.”

“Okay, uh, correct me if I’m wrong, but if you change in these recordings, does that not mean you’ve already changed?

“Yeah, but… it’s not something you can see right now. At home.” The ceiling feels a lot easier to look at while saying this, so you break eye contact and tilt your head back. “You heard what happened after I shot him. A couple of sobs, some heaving. It won’t be like that at the end. I’ll probably seem a lot more… enthusiastic. About murdering these people.”

“Okay, sweetie? I think that may have been circumstantial. Because now that we’re here? Safe? You’ve been having a hard fucking time coping with that. No?” What she’s saying kind of makes sense. You tilt your head back down to look at her. “One thing I’ve noticed, is that you keep referring to what you did as murder. I mean, yeah, that’s a word for killing people, but it’s generally a word for killing people intentionally. For _wanting_ to kill them.”

“But-“

“ _No_ , you didn’t want to. You had to, and maybe it felt like you wanted to at the time, but I think that was probably about more wanting to survive. Lara, you’re wrecked about this. You didn’t want to kill those people.”

You’ve never thought about it that way before. You’ve always just remembered how you felt then, when it was happening. You’ve had minor crises related to the men you murd- killed, but you never saw the disconnect between you feelings then and your feelings now.

“If you still insist on feeling guilty, can we at least drop the charges to involuntary manslaughter, please?” That shouldn’t make you laugh, but it does, and Sam grins up at you as you giggle. “And Lara? Next time a story involves shooting somebody in the dick? Please don’t leave that out.”

You’re still chuckling a little when you tell her, “You’re terrible.”

“Yeah, I think I told you that already.”

Somehow, you didn’t ruin the evening. Perhaps telling Sam ahead of time helped, or maybe you actually are improving. Either way, the two of you go the rest of the night without having any sort of major _or_ minor issue. It’s nice, it’s relaxing, and you want it back, permanently.

You just want your life back.

In the morning, when you wake up, Sam rolls over and asks you who Vladimir is. “You mumbled his name once or twice.”

You had expected to have dreams, after watching the tape, and you didn’t let yourself down. You’d think Sam would figure it out, but then again, she hasn’t had any caffeine yet. “Sam. _Vladimir_. What nationality does that name make you think of?”

“Russian? Why… _oh_.” She brushes your messy fringe out of your face, and gives you a quick kiss. “Are you alright?”

“Yeah. I expected it.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re alright.”

You shoot her a tired glare, and she drops it. You watch her for a second, then take a moment to consider something. “Uh, Sam?” You’re not sure you should add this, but maybe she deserves to know. “Do you want to know one more thing? About him?”

“I guess? If you want to tell me.”

“He had two brothers. Or, he called them his brothers, at least. Nikolai and Dmitri. You kind of know them.” There’s no recognition on her face. “The fire ritual. They’re who attacked me. I think I upset them.”

“Oh, those pieces of shit. Well, they upset _me_. Thank you for the names. I can hate them in more detail now.” The way she says it keeps you unsure about if telling her was the right thing to do. You don’t have much time to ponder it, as she starts pushing you out of bed. “Time to rise and shine. We gotta go meet up with Old Fart.”

Once you arrive at the museum you start to dread your private tour with Old Fart, and as you pace around, you alternate between cracking your knuckles (or attempting to, as there isn’t much left to crack after the fourth try) and punching your palms. Sam is leaning in the corner of the room, watching you, which is why you’re keeping your hands busy. You don’t want them scratching at your side.

“It’s gonna be fine. You’ll be fine. Just try and remember to breathe. Maybe stop destroying your knuckles too?”

Your hands drop as you turn to Sam’s corner. “How do you know? You don’t. Something’s going to happen. I don’t know what, but this has been too easy so far.”

“Something _is_ going to happen if you keep that up. Relax, Lara. Just let him look at all this shit and then send him on his way.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“Sorry, let him look at all these _fine archaeological discoveries._ I’ll be here the whole time. Do you want me to do anything?”

You look around. “Find me a stick to poke at everything with?”

“How professional.”

“I have mentioned, multiple times, that I’ve no idea what I’m doing, haven’t I? You’re my manager. Manage me.”

She waves her arm around the room. “This isn’t my forté, I’m pretty sure I have less of an idea than you. But if you insist, a laser pointer _would_ be far more professional.”

“Just-“ Footsteps interrupt you, and you turn to see Old Fart being led towards you. “Just be ready to snap me back to reality, okay?”

“Lara, it’s going to be-“

“Just keep an eye on me. Please.”

Old Fart enters the room and you walk over to greet him. As you lead him over to the first table of items, you glance back at Sam, and she nods subtly at you. You muster up a smile for her before turning back to start rambling about everything you found.

Other than ending up with a dry mouth due to your continuous monologue, everything goes well. You quickly found out that Old Fart was touchy-feely enough that you weren’t going to have to do anything other than point at things. Sam stayed out of the way, but you saw her glancing around the room a few times, and you know what she was looking for. When Old Fart leaves, after thanking you profusely, you walk over to where the coin is. “Over here.”

“What?”

You beckon her over. “I know you want to see it. The coin.”

She looks down at her feet. “…Maybe.”

“It’s not a big deal. I get it. C’mere.”

“Okay.” She joins you and looks down to where you’re pointing. “I don’t really know what I’m meant to be looking for, that’s your job. But it’s nice. I think he’ll like it.”

“You think?” She nods, and you smile. “We’ll have to figure out something special for it.” The two of you stay put for a minute, but you eventually look past her, a few tables over. “This way.” She looks down at the coin one more time, and then follows you over to the jade horse. “Notice how small and portable this is.”

“Ah, yes.” She picks it up and you can tell she’s weighing it. “Oh so very pocket sized.” You grumble. “It’s neat, though. I see why you brought it.” She turns it over in her hands a few times before putting it back. “Since we’re here, can I see that badge too? I just… I dunno. You’ve shown me the others.”

“Sure. I don’t see why not. That way.” You lead her by pointing. She gets there before you, and picks it out easily enough. You stand opposite her, and watch her examine it. She’s squinting at the etchings you mentioned, which is kind of cute.

But as she looks over the badge, you’re reminded of your omissions, and something hiding in the back of your mind says, _tell her_. You try to convince it that doing so would be a bad idea, while Sam’s talking to you in the background. When you attempt to actually listen to her, you only hear portions of what she says, because _tell her_ is repeating in your brain.

“The plane crashed in the same place.” You cut her off before you even realize that you’ve decided to tell her. She narrows her eyes at you, not recognizing what you’re talking about. “When I told you about that flashback I had. I… didn’t really lie. I guess. But I didn’t tell you the whole truth, either. The plane, it fell in pretty much the same place. What was different was the way it crashed.” You pause to take a deep breath, and automatically glance up. It’s not the right ceiling, which almost makes you feel worse. “It was falling, right? It was flying right at me, like when it actually happened. Specifically, the difference was how it landed. What it landed on.” You can feel your fingers picking at your side. You don’t care. “Because I didn’t turn and run. I told you I watched it. I just… didn’t tell you that I kept watching it. I stood there watching and waiting. For it to hit me, I suppose. I think it did? I don’t know.”

Sam is dead silent. She’s standing across the table from you, looking at you in absolute silence. The badge clatters back onto the table after she tosses it, but the quiet returns when it settles. She looks sad, which you expected. But you think that you see more fear in her eyes than anything else. Lacking anything else to add, you force your hands into your pockets and stiffly rock back and forth on the balls of your feet.

“Why did you lie?”

“I didn-“ _Do not try to convince her you weren’t lying._ “I didn’t say anything about it because I didn’t want to upset you. I thought it might be upsetting?” You have a feeling you were right about that.

“Oh.” It takes a few tries, but eventually Sam actually gets out some of the words you’ve been waiting for. “You don’t actually want to…”

As if what you say isn’t a bad enough choice, you take a moment too long to to say it. “I don’t think so.”

Her eyes flick away from you. “‘Kay.”

You shouldn’t have told her.

And now you definitely can’t tell her about your dreams.

You also should have been more reassuring, but you’ve started to legitimately feel like you do know almost nothing. One of the few things you _do_ know at the moment is that you don’t want to die, and you wish you could go back to give that real, proper answer. Problem was, you didn’t know that you needed to know that until it was too late. Consequently, you blanked on possibly the easiest question you’ve ever been asked.

Sam doesn’t look like she’s going to move, so you walk around the table and tug her hand. “Let’s get home, yeah?” Mutely, she nods at you. Phantom hand has been absent for some time, but it’s back, and it punches you in the gut.

When you leave, Sam doesn’t let go of your hand. You try to tell yourself that you look like just any random couple, as opposed to a couple whose one half has likely just put the other on suicide watch. You want to feel normality. It helps calm you down, somewhat. That is, until your heart sinks and your stomach drops when she leans against you, whispering, “Please don’t leave me.”

Since she’s started the car, Sam, in consecutive order, has not passed a car that had stopped to make a right turn, has not sped up ten kilometres to run a stale yellow, has not driven through a parking lot in order to skip a light, and has not yelled at a pedestrian who stopped at a crosswalk to wave her through, even though she had already slowed to let them pass.

You’re more frightened by these events than you are by how she drives on a daily basis.

“Sam, I-“ You stop because you don’t know what you were going to say. You just wanted to end the silence that’s been lingering between awkwardly forced banter. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s whatever.”

That was an automated response if ever you’ve heard one. “I get the feeling that it isn’t.”

Her eyes stay on the road. “We haven’t been sharing everything, that isn’t news.”

You’d happily deal with your regular car terror, if she’d just take her eyes off to road for even a second. “I told you about this after we agreed to stop that.”

“Lara. You’re not going to magically become an open book.”

“But…”

“It’s fine, alright?”

You spend the rest of the ride thinking of every single way you’ve screwed things up. You average about two ways every six blocks. When Sam pulls up to your flat, you find yourself stuck, sitting in the car. Consumed by your thoughts about this mess you’ve made.

It takes her a minute, but when she notices that you aren’t following her, Sam appears at the window of your seat of the car. She just so happens to catch you leaning forward, cradling your head in your hands. Having a bit of a pity party as well as a slight crisis. You look up at her when she opens your door.

“I wouldn’t do that. You know that, right? I wouldn’t do- I won’t do that to you. I promise. I’m not lying about this. I don’t want that. I know what I said wasn’t exactly comforting, but I promise you. _I don’t want that._ ”

She holds out her hands to help pull you out of the car. “Okay.” She still wavers when she says it, but it’s a lot firmer than the last time. “I trust you. I told you that, already. That I trust you.”

“You _did_.” She was talking about something completely different, though. “But this isn’t quite the same, is it?”

“Trust is trust, Lara. Just give me a little more time to process this. I never… it’s not an issue I ever considered before.” A second passes, and you find yourself squeezed in a tight hug. “I trust the hell out of you, Lara.” She’s talking into your shoulder. “Don’t make me feel like a fucking idiot for doing so.”

You’re at a loss for what to tell her, at this point. Instead of using any words, you decide to just hold her, until she’s ready to let go of you. It would be nice if the hug was comforting, but it’s not really helping. Not you, at least. Hopefully it _is_ helping Sam. That possibility is what keeps you there, staring blankly past her while she crushes your torso. The hug doubles as some time to reflect on the giant mistake you’ve made. You really _don’t_ know what you’re doing, do you?

It’s taken you two-slices-of-leftover-pizza’s worth of time to decide to say something. You could just mess this up more, you know that. But you can’t handle the way Sam keeps looking at you. Surely you can come up with something better than ‘I don’t think so’ or ‘I promise I’m not lying’. You pause the movie that the two of you are watching (it doesn’t escape you that Sam’s chosen one of her comfort films, one that she’s seen dozens of times, when she’s stressed or upset about something) to get her attention. “Listen, Sam, clearly we need to talk about this.”

“About what?” She receives your best disapproving glare. “No, I know what. We did already. You said you’re fine. I said I trust you. We talked.” How great. You’ve switched on her denial mode.

“Sam, really? You know that isn’t enough. Don’t ignore this, don’t start that again. Please.”

She shrugs. “I’m not ignoring anything.”

“Fine. If you say so.” You need to drag this conversation out of her, somehow. “I’ve got a question, though. You trust me, I’m understanding that.” You drop the remains of your third slice of pizza back into the box, and make sure that you catch her eyes. “But do you believe me?” She finishes eating the crust of her pizza. “They aren’t mutually exclusive, Sam. So, do you _believe_ me?”

She hesitates and breaks your eye contact. “I want to? You’ve been opening up to me, you’ve been amazing, but you said it already… this is different. If I believe you, let it drop, I might miss something. I want to believe you, but I’m afraid to.” After a heavy sigh, she looks back to you. “I don’t think you’re lying, either. I’m in some sort of weird fucking limbo. Does that make any sense?”

To you, it sounds like she’s saying that she doesn’t know, which you can sympathize with. “It does. And I swear, I’m telling you the truth. Though I realize that isn’t the most reliable thing I can say, with how I’ve been acting.”

“We’ve.”

She cut in pretty quick. “What?”

“How _we’ve_ been acting. It’s not just you.”

“Alright. We’ve. But, my point is that I don’t know what I can tell you to help you understand. Because I don’t know either. I don’t get why events change like that when I relive them, or whatever. That I don’t understand it myself. Because I honestly haven’t had any…” Her expression changes. Confusion spreads over her face, but you don’t know what you’ve said to cause that. “suicidal…” Oh, wait, you _do_ know what you’ve just said. What you’ve done, to be more accurate. “…thoughts.” You wince when you finish speaking.

You’ve made a huge mistake.

You pluralized.

Sam doesn’t say anything right away, although her hand does start scratching at the back of her neck. She spends a minute looking around the room. At what, you don’t know. Her unoccupied hand goes up and links with the other behind her neck. “Event _s_?” Her linked hands nervously run up and down her neck. “As in, more than one?”

You close your eyes and listen to the slight hum coming from the speakers of your paused TV. You keep listening, hoping that Sam will say something else. Anything else. Because literally anything _you_ say right now will make this worse. ‘I don’t know’ would just be another terrible excuse, ‘no’ would be a lie that she’d be fully aware of, and ‘yes’ would lead to… you don’t know what. 

But all you hear is that hum of the speakers. 

You listen to them for a long time before you open your eyes and sigh. “Yes.”

While you had your eyes closed, Sam must have pulled her legs up onto The Sofa, and her hands are now resting in her lap. She’s sitting unnervingly still, especially given her track record. You’re having a hard time breathing properly. “Tell me.” Her voice doesn’t sound quite right. “Please.”

There isn’t much else you _can_ do, at this point. “We haven’t talked about any of my dreams yet. We’re going to have to, now. The one I need to tell you about is a good dream, actually. Sort of. It changes.”

“But it _is_ a _good_ dream?”

“Sometimes?” The way she’s watching you, you think it would be best to cut to the chase and tell her exactly how the dream goes. “Um, what happens is- So, Roth is there. Alex. Grim. They’re there. But nothing’s changed with them. They’re still dead.”

Her head tilts and you can see her trying to work out how that’s a good thing. “Uh-huh.”

“They’re, I don’t know, they aren’t zombies or anything. But they’re alive-dead? If that… that doesn’t make any sense, I know.” You inhale deeply to try and get your breathing back on track. “But they can talk to me. Or, I don’t know if they actually _talk_ , but somehow they communicate with me. They, uh, they forgive me. For… you know.”

“Alright…” Her foot finally starts to tap. “So that’s good.”

“Uh-huh. So, they forgive me, and it’s really nice. It feels good to have that forgiveness. After that bit, it sometimes goes wrong, though. They kind of, they’re like ‘hey, Lara, you should come join us, hang out with us, we miss you’. That sort of thing.”

Sam’s only response is to tap her foot faster.

“It’s- the problematic part of it is when I, uh, agree?”

“You don’t. Lara, _you don’t_.”

“I do. Sometimes. _Sometimes._ ” You emphasize it, as if it makes everything better.

Sam’s foot tap tap taps and you focus on it, because it’s familiar by now. Familiar is calming. “Please tell me these ‘sometimes’ are the times it turns into a bad dream.”

You pause while you try to figure out how to explain this. The pause must go on too long, because the look Sam is giving you isn’t good. You’ll have to figure it out as you stumble over your words, you decide. “Yes. Well, kind of? It, uh, it seems okay at the time, is what I mean to say. I get to be with them.”

“So when exactly does it become a bad dream, then?”

“When I wake up, generally.” You might be messing this up.

“ _Because_ you wake up?”

“Well, yes, because that’s when I have to think about it.” Sam’s face tells you that you definitely are messing this up. “No! No, not like that. I want to wake up. I meant that it’s bad at that point because I wake up and remember what I dreamed about and it’s, uh, fucked up?”

You miss the comfortable part of the silence that you’ve been sharing lately. Because right now, you are not at all comfortable, but the two of you certainly are silent. You don’t know what you should be saying, and it seems like Sam doesn’t either. You’ll just have to keep bumbling your way through this.

“Sam, I don’t know what to say right now. I feel like anything I say is just going to make things worse. Make you worry more. I don’t want to do that. They’re just dreams, I can’t control them. I’ve never consciously thought about it.”

“This is kinda a lot all at once? ‘Specially since I never thought about it before.” She’s rubbing at her temples as she talks. “I trust you, Lara. That, I know. But I can’t figure out where the fuck I’m supposed to go from there.”

“What can I do to help you believe me?”

Her hands drop back down to her lap. “Huh?”

“Is there anything I can do to help you believe me when I say that I _do not_ have any desire, at all, to kill myself? Anything?” You really don’t want her overthinking this. She doesn’t deserve to worry about this. Especially because there’s actually nothing to worry about.

“Hm.” It looks like she’s actually thinking quite hard. “Maybe this is stupid, but-“

“It isn’t.”

“ _Maybe this is stupid_ , but we keep saying we need a consult with Dr. Google…”

You stand up and sweep your arm towards the bedroom. “Lead the way.”

She gives you a watered down version of The Look, but then stands up as well. “Yeah. Okay. Let’s go.” She hesitates, again, before she starts moving.

“Now that we’re actually sitting here, I feel a little weird about this.”

You ignore Sam, and open a new browser window. “I was serious, Sam. I will literally do whatever you ask, if it makes you feel even the slightest bit better.”

“M’kay.”

However, when you start typing into the search bar, you feel a little weird too. You push the feeling to the side, and hit search after you finish typing ‘suicide warning signs’. The page loads and you spin the laptop to face Sam. “You can pick.”

“I feel weird about this.”

“Yeah.” She’s scrolling up and down the page, fast. Too fast to actually read anything. “We don’t have to do this. It’s up to you.”

“It’s dumb. Like, I should be able to tell on my own. None of these,” She gestures at the screen. “Know anything about you.”

“Well, yeah, obviously you know me better than anything on the internet is going to. You know me better than anything or _anybody_ does. You’re the Lara-expert. But you said that you were scared you’d miss something, if you chose to believe me. Maybe there’s something here that you wouldn’t have thought about.” You push your chair closer to hers, and lean slightly against her. “I want you to believe me. I want you to feel comfortable believing me. I don’t want you to worry about this. But if you’ve changed your mind, we don’t have to do this. You can type Netflix in instead, if you want.”

She clicks a link, at random, it looks like. “Let’s just get this started.” She sounds like she’s dreading reading through this more that you are.

“Should I read? Or you?”

“Uh.” She looks at the bullet point list that’s appeared on the screen. “Can you?”

“Of course.” You settle a little more comfortably against her, which doesn’t strike you as odd until you read out the first point. “Okay, so. Verbal statements about, uh, dying and death. Direct or indirect.” Cozying up to read a suicide warning list _is_ actually quite odd, but what about your life isn’t, right now? “Have I said anything?” You want her to be the judge.

She thinks for a moment. “This feels skewed. I mean, you talked about killing that dude, but that doesn’t count, does it?”

“Thank you, for reminding me of that.” You smile at her, so she knows that you aren’t actually upset about what she said. The smile is what pushes you to the tipping point of accepting just how messed up this is. You’re joking about murdering a man in order to convince your girlfriend that you aren’t going to kill yourself.

If anybody had told you, ever, that you’d be doing this exact thing at some point in your life, you would have called them insane. Maybe laughed a bit. But here you are.

“Go back, choose a different page.”

You do, and you read out the first point on your new list. “Commonly talking or thinking about death.”

She groans. “That’s going to be on all of them, isn’t it? Can you go back to the first one?” You click back until you find it. “You haven’t said anything about dying without proper context, I guess. What’s next?”

“Hm… dramatic changes in mood. I’d like to say that I feel like that’s part of the reason we’re doing this right now.”

Her fingers drum against the desk. “Yup. What else?”

“Loss of interest in previously enjoyed interests and activities?”

She groans again, and sounds more annoyed than earlier. “Okay, yes we know this already.” Glaring at the screen, she pointedly states, “ _We are aware of this already._ ”

Maybe you shouldn’t be doing this. “I don’t think it’s the computer’s fault, Sam.”

“No, but how is this helpful? This is like, a list of things we know and are trying to work on.”

You would really like to single out something she just said, but it doesn’t feel like a good time, so you bite your tongue. “I don’t know, Sam. Nobody is ever in the same situation.”

“You’re right, you’re right.” She sighs. “Next?”

“It’s a little vague. It just says agitation.”

“Fuck’s sake.” You’ve noticed that she’s getting louder the further you get down the list. “You lose your shit _every time_ you get angry or ‘agitated’ or whatever.” She blinks and looks at you. “Uh, in a good way. Is there a good way to lose your shit? Just. You get upset about it. In a good way. Because you know you did something wrong. Or you think you did. Fuck. You know what I mean. What’s the next one?”

Hesitantly, you read it out. “Increase in drug and alcohol use.”

“Oh my god. Y’know what? Fuck this.” She closes the laptop, not at all delicately. “This is agitating _me_.”

“Uh, well I actually did-“

“Hand over a nearly full bottle of prescription painkillers? When you were concerned that you’d start taking too many? This is bullshit. This is just a list of everything that we’re trying to fix.” When she pauses, she leans back in her chair, and her brow creases. “It’s a list of things we’re trying to fix.”

“It is.”

“You wouldn't want to be trying to fix these things if you were more focused on killing yourself,” Seems that she’s noticed what you wanted to point out earlier. “Would you?”

The question sounded hypothetical, but after you finish cringing at it, you answeranyway. “Er, theoretically, no. I don’t think so. I don’t think I’d much care.” You also don’t think that you’d be trying so hard to convince her otherwise, unless you thought she’d get in your way. But you don’t want to push your luck, and you stay quiet.

She doesn’t respond to what you say, and keeps talking, to herself perhaps. “And… wait. You? It was you who forced us to talk about this. Like, forced. If you… why would you do that?”

After that, she goes quiet and it looks like she’s concentrating on something. You use the time to think as well, and something else occurs to you. “Sam? I’ve got another question for you.”

“Uh, yeah. Sure.” She sounds confused again.

“Earlier you asked me to give you some time to process… this. Because you hadn’t considered it before.” Again, you’re not sure if you’re about to make things worse. “I don’t want to be presumptuous, but why hadn’t you?”

Her confusion goes up a notch. “I- you… because you seemed fine. Not _fine_ fine, obviously. Sure, you’ve been blaming yourself for a lot of things. And you did ignore some of what was going on, but… you didn’t exactly do that on purpose, did you? If you’re covering that you did, you deserve a fucking Oscar. You weren’t alright at all, and, uh… you- I’m sorry, but you still aren’t, completely,” You make an affirmative noise, to let her know it was okay to say that. “But you never seemed that bad. Didn’t seem desperate? Is that the right phrase? I don’t know. You’ve just seemed lost.”

You’ve never been so glad to be deemed ‘not alright’. “That’s just it, Sam. I don’t know what the hell I’m doing. I do feel lost. Of course I’m upset about everything that’s happened, and yeah, I’m fucked up. I know that now.” She squints at you. “Sam, I see the way you look at me sometimes, although it took me awhile to figure that out.”

She looks away for a moment. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be. Nothing about that is wrong. You were- you _are_ concerned. You’re allowed to be. Anyway, I didn’t notice it before, like you said. But Sam, it’s never gotten _that_ to me that badly. Bad enough that I’d consider… giving up? Stop trying. The only time that that’s gotten in my head is when I had that flashback or when I have that dream. And that’s only because those things caught me off guard. Disoriented me.”

Sam doesn’t look confused anymore. She doesn’t look anything. She’s watching you, blankly, while you speak.

“I’d love to say that I’d tell you the moment life got that hard for me, but again, that’s something I can’t promise. Because I’ve already hid the truth from you. I was scared to tell you, and so I didn’t. I wish I had. If I had, we wouldn’t be doing this right now. I hid from you, because I was scared of what you’d think. Because I didn’t want to worry you. And I ended up hurting you as a result. I didn’t mean to… I didn’t intend to muck about with what you’ve told me is essentially your biggest fear. I tried to protect you, I suppose. But I didn’t, I only made it worse. I’m so sorry, Sam.”

She still has that blank expression. “I…” You might have accidentally overloaded her and you’re pretty sure she’s trying to catch up. “Hrm.” She runs a hand through her hair and looks away. “A lot of stuff just… happened today. Uh, you know? There’s- I’ve got too much going on in my brain right now. Um. Not your fault. But it’s hitting me hard, all of a sudden.” When she turns back to you, she sniffles once, quickly, before she says, “It’s all jumbled up now, and I just need to, I have to sort it out. I’m a little… I need to figure it out.”

“We can do that. It _is_ my fault, and I _am_ sorry, Sam.” She nods ever so slightly, and you stand up. Immediately, she gets up to follow you. “Hey. Hey, it’s okay. I was just going to get into bed. It’s getting late and I thought you might want to cuddle while you figure this out. If that works for you.”

It works for her, and she’s understandably in super clingy mode. She has you completely pinned, the way she’s clutched to you, with her head tucked under your chin. You don’t mind. The room is quiet, and that’s fine too. You’ll let her think as much as she needs.

Sometime later, her grip on you hasn’t slackened, so you assume she’s still awake when you tell her, “I’m never leaving you, yeah?” You feel her take a deep breath. “I love you far too much to ever go anywhere.” She hums quietly, and you smile. “Okay. Good.”

You wait until Sam’s breathing goes even and steady before you let yourself fall asleep.

But, you also borrow Sam’s nightmare, and spend the night getting beaten to a pulp. The first time you wake up, you’re confused, until you work out that it was a dream. The second time it wakes you, you’re annoyed. You just want to get some sleep, just enough to feel like a human in the morning. The third time you wake, you consider getting up, but there’s no way you’re leaving Sam alone. The fourth time, you think that maybe this is your punishment for what you put Sam through, so you accept it, close your eyes, and wait. 

Oddly, you sleep well for the rest of the night.

* * *

_died in an amusement park accident, i came back for you, so you wouldn't be alone_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> see also: black cadillacs by modest mouse, truffle pigs by matthew good band
> 
> I'm going to throw it out there that this isn't a fake out. When I reread it, parts of it felt like I might be hinting that it's a fake out. It isn't. Lara isn't lying. I don't want that to be some accidental unresolved plot point. So. Yeah.
> 
> I'm also very sorry and I will try and let them do a happy thing soon. That's part of the reason last chapter was so short as well, because this got a little too dark and I wanted to go back and edit that up a bit, so I just published what I didn't need to fix. Also why the first bit of the chapter is almost a little too silly.
> 
> Would you like to know why Lara accidentally pluralized? Because I accidentally pluralized, and then decided to go with it. And then the chapter got away from me and then I didn't want to split it because of the content matter and that's also why it got a little long.
> 
> Is it clear why Lara sleeps better, or am I seeing it through my own eyes and my own eyes only? I made a tumblebumble so I could throw a post up there or something.
> 
> Also, I'm writing something else atm and can I just say? It's really hard to switch out of second person POV after sitting here typing so much of it. Blargh.
> 
> alternative dubstep song for this chapter, because i am trash™: Believe Her by Mr FijiWiji feat. Meron Ryan
> 
> What adventures can we look forward to in an upcoming unnamed chapter? something happier that's for damn sure and more furniture shopping, if things don't get away from me again


	15. The Brooka

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The outcome that your imagination gives you unsettles you. “That isn’t a fair question.”
> 
> She shrugs and looks back out the window. “Maybe.” Her view follows yours and you both watch the stroller roll into the store. “But it’s a realistic one.”
> 
> This line of questioning is making you uncomfortable, and you slouch in your seat.

“M’sorry.”

You flinch as Sam’s sudden statement pulls you out of your awake-but-not-quite-fully-awake state. “What?”

“I’m sorry.” When she repeats it, it comes out less timid than it originally did.

You’re still slightly groggy and not sure what she’s done wrong. You’ve just woken up, and you aren’t sure what she would have done in the middle of the night that would warrant an apology. “Yeah, I understood that, but what are you sorry about?”

She turns to look at you, blinks a few times, and then looks away again. You’re rather confused, but you figure it best to allow her more time before you ask again.

Eventually, she croaks out one word before going silent again. “I-“

You’re starting to get a little worried. What you’re worried about, you have no idea, but you feel like there _is_ something to be worried about, with how Sam’s acting. Still, you give her some more time to answer.

“Ididn’tcompletelybelieveyou.” She’s still not quite looking at you.

Of course. Now that she’s (presumably) calmed down about her original panic, she’s once again worried that she’s fucked things up. You sigh. “That’s alright.” Her eyes suddenly snap to yours and she looks as confused as you felt moments ago. “I scared you, and I apologize for everything I did to cause that. You’re allowed to worry. Especially with how I just dumped all of that on you after hiding it.”

She responds with only a deep breath and a nod, and it doesn’t look like what you said made any difference. There’s still guilt in her eyes. 

“Sam, how long have you been awake?” She doesn’t immediately respond, and you add, “Thinking about this?”

“Lil’ bit.”

God, and she thinks she’s the one who fucked up? “Sam, I’m serious. It’s fine. It’s fine to doubt me sometimes. Especially about something so big. I understand why you would. I get it.” The guilty look doesn’t leave her face and she doesn't respond, which is when it clicks and you actually _do_ get it. “And it’s fine if you still don’t.”

The fact that you figured it out causes her to look even guiltier, and she exhales heavily before she mumbles again. “Just a little bit.” She pauses, and her face changes to an expression that’s begging you for forgiveness. “The smallest bit. The tiniest.”

“Sam…” You don’t know what else to say. So instead of trying to find words, you roll onto your back and you motion at your shoulder with your chin. She takes the invitation, and is snuggled against you in record time. You run your hand through her hair as you tell her, “That’s okay.” She nods again. “It really is. It’s okay.”

After some ceiling-staring and (far more comfortable) silence, you decide to take a chance. “Hey, you want to go buy a sofa today?”

“…’Kay.”

Her agreement doesn’t do much to motivate her to move, however. You’re in no rush (you never seem to be, lately), so you let Sam decide when it’s time to get up. It’s the least you can do. A few minutes pass before she murmurs against your shoulder. “I love you.”

Phantom hand pokes you in the chest. It’s really been punishing you for everything that’s happened in the last day. The arm you have wrapped around her tugs her closer to you. “I love you just the same.” A nod.

You hate this, but you can’t blame her. You can only blame yourself.

“I’m sorry, Sam.”

One more time, she nods.

By the time that you’re finishing up cooking breakfast, Sam’s emerging from the shower. She comes out acting much closer to her regular self than when she went in. If she’s actually feeling better, you don’t know, but it’s nice to see. You don’t want to say anything to ruin it, but a little voice in the back of your head is telling you to worry about if she’s simply slapped the persona over how she’s actually feeling. But you really don’t want to bring everything back up, so you decide to just pay close attention for any cracks for the rest of the day. Week. For however long _you’ve_ messed her up for.

And so, keeping up with ‘normality’ (you feel that you’re starting to lose the meaning of that concept) you hand off a plate to her. “The bacon oinked when I took it out of the pan. Enjoy.”

She grins at you. It’s worth risking E. coli for that.

“So, it’s a weekday and still relatively early.” You watch, forlornly, as Sam buckles into the drivers seat. “Are you okay to try a few biggish stores before we resort to Larry’ses?”

“Yes.” You bark it out too stiffly, and too quickly.

She raises an eyebrow at you.

“…Probably,” You add.

You don’t know if you’re imagining that she seems more hesitant about this than she has previously, but either way, she looks concerned. Which is fair enough, you suppose; simply disregarding yesterday doesn’t make any of your previous attempts to leave the house seem any better.

“I have to try. You know that.”

“Yeah,” She starts the car. “Yeah, you’re right. We’re sticking to furniture sections only though.” You don’t know why you wouldn’t, but you can see the corner of her lips twitch up and you wait for the punchline. “You’ve improvised too much lately. I mean, I can’t even trust you to be alone with a flower planter or a fish tank.”

You shove her shoulder lightly.

“Can’t even bring home marshmallows.”

“Hold on. Those were not only inconsequential, but they ended up helping in the end. Kind of.”

She shrugs, starts driving, and almost immediately rolls through a stop sign. That makes you smile, for once. Everything is going to go back to how it was, you convince yourself. Obviously, you’d rather rewind back past Yamatai, but just back to yesterday morning is good enough for you right now.

After parking, Sam steps out of the car and stares up at the storefront. “This place has more accents in its name than it has letters.”

The sign is large, and there is indeed a lot of dots and dashes all over it. “Very astute of you to notice.” You pull your hood up.

“I thought we were going to _buy_ a couch, not build one.”

You scoff and point at the keys in her hand. “I don’t recall being the one who turned into the parking lot. Besides, you said I was getting pretty good at improvising. I can probably put some pieces of wood together.” A glare is thrown in your direction. “Stores with foreign names don’t automatically default to selling only bits and pieces with vague instructions, you know. And I’m pretty sure that the building part only applies to shelves and tables and things that don’t involve learning upholstery.”

“You’re probably right.” She turns to smirk at you. “All I know is that people have told me this place has a good cafeteria.”

At least she’s answered your question of why she picked this place. You were wondering, as the complaining started the moment she got out of the car. “We just had breakfast, Sam.”

She magically produces a tupperware container from under the driver’s seat, and waves it in the air. “Or do you want to come back later, when it’s lunchtime-busy?”

Because she’s right, you have no retort, and you’re the one grabbing her hand and tugging her along for a change. It doesn’t last long though, and she bumps into you when, once again, you do your signature parking lot stare after an abrupt stop. Odd how it takes a minute for it to kick in.

But, god, when it kicks in? You swear you can hear footsteps of people walking around inside the store. Can see everything that moves in your peripheral vision, and past it. It might be nice, to be so aware of your surroundings, if that awareness didn’t also come with a load of anxiety and bit of fear. You refrain from reaching for an imaginary weapon, at least.

“Lara.” Your name isn’t a question this time. She probably expected this. You’d turn to look at her if you weren’t so busy watching a family unload themselves from a van (you don’t know why you perceive this as a potential threat). “Lara.”

You absently acknowledge her with a “Mhm.” A stroller comes out of the back of the van, but you keep watching just in case they’ve got something else stored back there. It’s completely irrational, but. You have to.

You feel her pull on your arm, which tears your attention away from the van pretty quickly, and around to her. To see what she’s trying to alert you to. But when you make eye contact, she looks down at your linked hands and back up to you. Oh. While you were busy not reaching for a weapon, you were busy crushing her hand instead. “Shit.” You let go instantly; you suddenly don’t trust yourself to keep a relaxed grip. “Uh…” Your eyes wander from hers and start floating around the parking lot again. “Sorry.”

“Are you sure you’re okay with this?” You hum an agreement again, and her face pops up to obscure your vision. “Yeah, that was a dumb question, wasn’t it?” You’re trying to focus on her, but across the street, a car that has _something_ wrapped in a tarp tied to its roof parks in front of a convenience store. You think Sam might still be talking to you, but what’s under that tarp?

“Why is it worse?” You ask while trying to tear your attention from the car. You do successfully focus back to Sam, for a moment, before the loud slamming of a car door catches you and you look to that. “Why am I worse?” Your fingers are twitching and itching, and you’re rolling back and forth on the balls of your feet. Is Sam saying something? Her voice is familiar and safe, and easy to filter out (not that you should be doing so) while you’re overwhelmed with so much noise.

You jump slightly when you feel hands on your shoulders, but you recognize them as Sam’s hands before you do anything that you could categorize as ‘stupid’. She directs you a few steps back the way you came, and you find yourself standing in front of a car door. You step back in. At least you’re shielded, in the car.

The door opposite you closes, but you keep your gaze out your window. “I don’t know if you should have done that.”

“What?”

You force yourself to drop your guard enough to turn and actually focus on Sam for more than two seconds. In a pathetic attempt to keep the world out of your sight, you stretch the fabric of your hood forward, hoping it’ll stay and block your view slightly more. “Grabbed my shoulders like that? I could have… I didn’t know it was you, at first.”

Your eyes start to wander, and she reaches out to mimic the way you stretched your hood, only she doesn’t let go to allow the fabric to recede. “Please look at me. Go ahead and multitask listening to all the shit that I can’t hear, but please, Lara, look at me.” You do. You do, and you focus so hard on the task that you zone out for… a few seconds? A minute, maybe. But when you zone back in, you notice that you can breathe slightly deeper. “Hey. You’re back?”

The casual way she asks it results in a sheepish nod.

“Alright. Can I let go of this hood without losing you again?”

After a quick glance over her shoulder, you cover her hands with your own and gently pull them away from the fabric that is now likely permanently stretched into a weird shape. “I’m s-“

“Don’t.”

You pull your bottom lip between your teeth, and bite, in an attempt to stop any further apologies from spilling out.

Instead of immediately following up, she watches you watch her. Eventually, she reaches back out to your hood, and you’re ready to stop her from pushing it back, but she only gives it a tug to straighten it. A frown flashes across her face. “I think I may have turned this slightly asymmetrical.”

Automatically, you say, “Fashion statement.”

“We can joke a bit again. Good.” She chuckles. “Even if it was a bit robotic.” Then her expression turns serious, and she asks you a question that you don’t understand at first. “So, would you rather I let somebody, I don’t know who, but somebody else be the one ‘grabbing your shoulders’?”

You just blink at her.

“Lara, what are you so afraid you’re going to do?”

You blink a few more times before replying. “Hurt you?”

“Right.” She motions out the window. “You aren’t afraid that you might hurt any of those people?”

The family with the van has finally gotten themselves situated, small child strapped into the stroller. You try to picture one of them approaching you. The outcome that your imagination gives you unsettles you. “That isn’t a fair question.”

She shrugs and looks back out the window. “Maybe.” Her view follows yours and you both watch the stroller roll into the store. “But it’s a realistic one.”

This line of questioning is making you uncomfortable, and you slouch in your seat. “I don’t want to hurt them, either.”

“Well, that’s good.” She leans her seat back and tilts her head to maintain eye contact. “I thought we established something while we were in your shitty tent?”

You did. The whole Sam-blanket thing. “This isn’t fair.”

“Yeah, you mentioned that.”

“Not _this_ this. Everything.”

“You mentioned that too.” You sigh and glance out the window one more time before reclining your seat as well. “Hey, I’m not saying that it isn’t. We established that as well.” You don’t respond, and Sam waits a minute before asking, “You know we’re going to have good and bad days, right? It’s not like it’s something that doesn’t already happen, it just usually happens inside.”

“Sure.” Your voice is flat. “Have I had a good outside day yet?”

“You were pretty enthusiastic about those potatoes. And, uh…” She hesitates. “Yesterday was pretty good until I went s-“

“ _Do not turn that around on yourself._ ” It leaves your mouth almost as a demand, but for once, an accidentally harsh tone doesn’t bother you. Still, it doesn’t stop you from following up with a much gentler, “Please.”

She chooses to switch the subject slightly. “Lara, I don’t know if I should point this out, but what you just did wasn’t much different than last time we tried this couch shopping thing. Y’know? I think maybe you’re just more aware and harsher on yourself about it, now that you’ve been out a few more times. I’m gonna tell you again; you’re capable of controlling yourself. I know you don’t believe that yet, but I hope you figure it out soon.”

Maybe she’s right. You went hyperaware and defensive, but that’s what you’ve done every other time you’ve been out. Could actually be that you _are_ just quicker to berate yourself about it, especially after the incident with the planter.

“Do you wanna go home?”

You do, but it’s like you told her: you have to do this. You don’t want to spend the rest of your life trapped inside your home. So, you tap the tupperware that’s sitting in her lap. “Thought you wanted to try some, uh…”

“Yeah,” She laughs, “I don’t know what kinda food is waiting for me in there either. All I know is that it’s apparently good.” The container is shoved into your hands. “But more importantly, are _you_ good?”

You contemplate the roof of the car for a moment, and then sit up abruptly enough for your seat to dramatically snap back into its normal position. “Let’s do this.”

Sam smiles and swiftly yanks the top of your hood down, momentarily obscuring your vision again. “Let’s.”

You’re pleased to find yourself in the living room section immediately after passing through the entrance. On the other hand, when you look around, you notice that retracing your steps seems as if it might be taboo in this place. The giant, gaudy arrow on the floor is your first clue. “Uh, Sam? How do we get out of here?”

“Through a door, I would assume.”

“No, I mean,” You walk over to a floor plan pasted on the wall and tap on a red ‘You Are Here’ marker. “I don’t think we can come back the way we just entered.”

She follows you and you watch her trace the map with her eyes. She frowns. “Oh my god. They’ve trapped us in here. What kind of marketing bullshit is th-“

“How can I help you ladies today?!”

Both of you jump at the sudden interruption of a disturbingly cheerful voice. You clench your hands into fists at your side, willing them to stay there. When you turn around, you find that a man in a crisp, bright red polo shirt has materialized behind you somehow.

“Please tell me we haven’t walked into the home of another cult,” Sam whispers to you.

“Excuse me?” You ask red polo man, ignoring Sam.

He flashes a broad smile and asks, “What can I do to help your shopping experience here today be the best that it can be?!”

“What-“

“You could leave us alone,” Sam offers. You glare at her.

Finished with your glare, you force a smile and look back to red polo man. “We’ll find you if we need anything, thank you.” He nods, shoves a flyer into your hands, and backs away, broad smile never faltering. You look down at the pages of coupons that you’re now holding, and Sam is back to staring at the floor plan, wide-eyed. “Sam? What the hell have you gotten us into?”

“Uh. Well. I… I heard there was good food here.”

“Yes.”

“Nobody told me that we’d be walking into some carnival house experience from hell.”

“Really.”

“Do you really think I would have come here willingly if I had know that it’d be like _this_?” The last word comes out as a hiss, and she glances around you, searching for something. “Okay, I was going to try to point out the guy that just cornered us, but everybody here looks identical.” You look around at the sea of red polos. “Maybe they’re clones, or something. But whatever. If you _are_ going to hurt somebody, can you please choose that dude?”

You roll your eyes and look around one more time. There seem to be very few customers, at least. And the red shirts make the employees all highly visible (though they must be trained in stealth skills). The floor plan is also rather open, other than the arrow forcing you to shop in one direction only. It could worse, you suppose. 

You pass the papers onto Sam and start following the arrow, stopping to sit on the first sofa you see.

“Okay, despite the fact that it’s weird as fuck in here, most of these couches have been pretty comfortable, don’t you think? And they aren’t hideous either.”

You evaluate the sofa that Sam is currently poking at. It _is_ pretty decent. But… “Have you seen how we’re meant to buy anything in here, Sam? I don’t… I mean, yeah, I’d be okay with any of these, but how do we actually purchase one?”

“I think there’s some sort of warehouse you have to wander through? Oh god, I don’t think I want to go there.” She sticks her head up to look around over the back of the sofa, surveying the vicinity.

Dropping down to sit beside her, you gently turn her face so you’re looking at her head-on. For safety purposes, you decide to whisper. “But if we do actually try to buy something, wouldn’t we have to talk to one of _them_?”

After the initial red polo encounter, Sam has been successfully warding any other red polos off with an impressive scowl. You _could_ flee and let her deal with the purchase, but that doesn’t seem fair.

“Fuck. You’re right.” She finds her phone and snaps a picture of the obnoxious tag attached to the sofa. “They’ve gotta have a website.” A red polo sees the phone, and starts approaching. “Oh no.”

“Hi there! It looks like you might be interested in taking home a _Brooka_ today!”

Sam’s scowl morphs into bewilderment. “What the fu-“

You quickly interrupt Sam, although it’s probably already clear what she was about to ask. You ask the same thing, attempting to be slightly more polite. “A _Brooka_?” Perhaps your short inquiry was more polite, but the exasperated tone in which you asked it may have nullified the politeness.

Patting the arm of the sofa, the red polo exclaims again, “A _Brooka!_ ”A fine choice of seating, if you ask me!”

Your eyes flick over to the tag in Sam’s hand and learn that the sofa you’re sitting on is labelled _Brooka_. Ah. The confrontation with this red polo’d woman is starting to increase the intensity of the jittery, nervous feeling that you’ve been trying to ignore. “Right. We’re actually, uh…”

“It’s for a friend!” Sam suddenly spits out. “I just wanted to make sure we wouldn’t forget the measurements. So we can check if it’ll fit. In our friend’s house. _Before we buy it._ ”

“Oh! A gift! How sweet. But don’t be afraid to forget the measurements, we have information on all of our products listed on the internet!” You feel like this should be the end of the conversation, but the red polo is still standing in front of the _Brooka_ , blocking an exit route.

After a few seconds of being on the receiving end of an unsettling grin, you give into the nerves and start twitching. Apparently one person can make you as uncomfortable as a large crowd can. Sam is silent beside you, so you attempt to send the red polo away. “Thanks?”

“Certainly!” A sigh of relief escapes you. You think that your affirmation has done the job. “I’m glad I could enhance your shopping experience!”

Red polo trots away and Sam grabs your shoulder. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

You have no objections. Just as you stand up to head back to the floor arrow, you notice that you’ve started to scratch at your side. You really don’t want to have a repeat and stain the _Brooka,_ so you keep both hands busy by cracking your knuckles. Sam watches you do so, and you watch her glance down to your stomach. Your jaw clenches and you silently curse the red polo for pushing your anxiety over the edge.

Then a hand tugs at your elbow, and you take the cue to follow Sam back over to the arrow.

As the two of you pass an invisible line that transforms everything around you into bookshelves and desks, you’re starting to become aware of the growing amount of people around you, and everything is starting to get louder, and you want to get out of this place.

“Sam?” Without stopping, she looks over at you. “I’m sort of starting to… I think we should hurry a bit.”

“Yeah, I’m not going to object.” She brushes shoulders with somebody who seems to be transfixed with an excessive computer desk, and you hear her inhale sharply. “It’s uh, I’m starting to get overwhelmed too. And I take it back. Don’t hurt that guy. It’ll only slow us down.”

When the desks begin to disappear, you start weaving through large storage units that quickly turn into ovens and granite counters. Sam leads you past some tables that you have to admit would be nice replacements for the sad table residing in your own dining area, but you have no intention of stopping to look, especially when you see all the cutlery sets (that are probably dulled, but still). A diagonal crossing that is likely frowned upon dashes you past beds and blankets, and Sam trips slightly on a bathroom mat as you make your way around more toilets than you’ve ever seen in your life. When you hit an area that surrounds you with closets and dressers, you spy a sign indicating a cafeteria hanging from the ceiling. Your arm flails up at it, and you hear Sam mutter, “thank god”. You start stepping over teeny chairs and pass by a bin of brightly coloured stuffed objects and after passing six bunk beds, you’re relieved to find that you’ve emerged into the cafeteria.

Sam stops abruptly, and you bump into her. She’s staring up at the menu.

“ _Seriously?_ ”

“I don’t know.” She shrugs. “I don’t think we’re ever coming back here, and we didn’t go through all that to leave without at least trying _something_ from this hellhole.”

You’re torn. If Sam insists on standing in line, you’re going to have to spend more time in here, surrounded by people. You’ve already absently reached for an imaginary pistol, just in case. Sam was too busy dodging red polos to notice. You could leave her and wait in the car, but the ‘leave her’ part of the plan makes you anxious. But surely you can beeline to the car fast enough to avoid any incidents.

Loud laughter from a grouping of people at a table to your left causes you to clench your fists at your side again, and your mind is made up. “Give me the keys.”

“Huh?”

You wave at the giant menu above you. “Go ahead and get your food. I need to get away from this.” Unintentionally making your point, your gaze starts to drift away from her. “Passenger seat, I swear. Just, keys. Please.”

The second you’ve got the keys in your hand you start dodging your way through the crowd. Sam probably asked if you wanted anything, but you don’t quite care at the moment. Outside, you do your somewhat casual half-jog until you find the car.

Locked inside, you slouch in your seat. After closing your eyes, you try to start blocking everything out, as much as you can manage. The attempt goes alright, and you start to breathe normally again. Okay, so. Confrontation, even just mild confrontation, is enough to set you off as well. Brilliant.

You do your best to not think about that, for now at least, and spend about ten minutes doing nothing but breathing. A sudden thump causes you to jump in your seat and your pulse spikes for the few seconds it takes to remember that you locked the doors when you launched yourself inside the car. Looking up, you see Sam waving at you through the window.

A container filled with meatballs is dropped in your lap as she sits down. You stare at them in disbelief. “You have got to be kidding me.”

Sam turns and shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. “I might have been in a panicked state and therefore I might have panicked a bit over the variety of choices. And I might have ended up ordered the same thing the dude in front of me ordered.”

You keep staring at the container, convinced that something else will appear in it. Unsurprisingly, nothing does. “Meatballs.”

Her hands fly up. “I don’t know! Okay? I don’t know. It just happened.” The car starts and reverses at an alarming speed. “Let’s just get the fuck out of here.”

Sam’s fork clatters down onto her plate. “These were _so_ not worth all of that.”

“I feel that they may have stayed in a frozen state for a little too long before they ended up here.” You weren’t going to say anything, but she brought it up first. Still, Sam looks far more dejected than the situation warrants. “Maybe you just picked the wrong meal?”

“I don’t think I even picked a meal. Is a plate of meatballs considered a meal?”

There’s one meatball remaining in front of you, and you jab at it with your fork. “Maybe if they were proper meatballs.”

“I guess. Whatever.” Her fork is back in her hand and she stabs the meatball in front of you. “So, should we go order that _Brooka_ or?”

“If you want to.”

“What I want is to never shop for furniture ever again.” You raise an eyebrow. “Okay, maybe just never shop for a couch again.”

As Sam searches for the correct page to order a _Brooka_ from _,_ something occurs to you. “Are you sure we should order this? What if their delivery people are those same clones?”

A frown appears on her face and she stops for a moment to think. Then she continues on and clicks the ‘add to cart’ button. “I don’t care anymore. I’d go buy that corduroy disaster right now, if I had the energy. I think we just need to get this done with.”

You silently agree, and watch her enter all the info needed to get the delivery set up. Around the time she opts to pay extra for one day delivery, you ask the question that’s been rolling around in your head for awhile. “Would you say that was a good outside day?”

“Was a weird outside day.”

“Serious answer, please.”

She pushes her chair away from the computer desk and leans back. “I don’t know. Would you say that it was?”

You don’t know either. Which is why you’re asking. “Do I judge myself fairly enough to decide that?”

“Good point. But I don’t know what to judge it against, y’know? It doesn’t seem right to compare to anything before Yamatai. Not yet. But,” She shrugs. “I didn’t have to haul you out of a closet, and I didn’t have to usher you into a washroom and then drive you back home in brooding silence. So, yes? You freaked out a little in the parking lot-“

“But I’ve done that every other time I’ve been out,” You fill in.

“Pretty much. Today lands closer to good than it does to bad. That sound fair?”

You nod.

Because of the terrifying shopping experience that Sam accidentally put you through, it’s only mid afternoon, and you’re home far earlier than either of you had anticipated. After clicking around on the internet some more, Sam decided that the rest of the day should be devoted to giving The Sofa a proper sitting salute. So now you’re both draped over it. A blanket gets pushed to the side and you catch a glimpse of a bit of blood. It gets you thinking.

“How do we get this out of here?”

“What do you mean? Don’t we just swap it with whoever shows up tomorrow?”

You stand up and pull the blanket entirely away from the stain it covers. “It has blood on it.”

“That is true.” Sam gets up as well, and is standing beside you, taking in the same view. “We could just stick it outside with a ‘free’ sign on it.”

The ridiculous suggestion makes you laugh. “And that’s better than giving it to a few delivery people, how?”

“Dunno. Was just giving you another option.” She reaches down and flips a cushion, which doesn’t quite fit properly when turned upside down. “If we do that, it’s not so bad.”

“That _is_ a little better, I guess.” To her, it’s just an accident. To you, it’s so much more. You can’t tell her why it bothers you for others to see it without telling her everything, though. You’ll just push your discomfort away, as much as you can. “Good enough,” You tell her as you sit back down.

She stays standing. “Uh, do you…” She looks over to her camera setup that’s been pushed out of the way. “Today’s been fairly good, right? We’re doing good. And this couch has been through a lot of our bullshit already. Do you want to give it one more viewing of badly filmed whatever is next on that camera?”

Clearly she’s using The Sofa as a (pretty flimsy) reason to work through some more stuff. “I don’t think The Sofa much cares, Sam.” You’re actually not completely put off by her suggestion, but you want to let her know you’re aware of her terrible reasoning.

“Yes, fine. But I just feel that we might be up to it, y’know? Able to handle it?”

‘We’ obviously means ‘you’. You can’t figure out if it bothers you that she’s tiptoeing around in that manner, so you just agree.

It takes Sam much less time than usual to set everything up, as she didn’t tear all the cables out like she did the first time. A few connections, and she’s sitting beside you, remote in hand. “You’re sure?” She asks a final time.

You reach over and hit the play button yourself. You don’t know what you’re going to see, but you feel much more comfortable about this than you felt the last two times. Maybe you’re making progress.

The recording starts up, and there’s immediate loud growling. Shaky camera footage once again identifies nothing, but the noises aren’t human, and it’s obvious to you what’s happening.

Through the growling, camera-you yells, “ _Get the hell off me!_ ” The growling continues, and struggled grunts from camera-you join them.

You look at Sam, choosing to offer information for a change. “He wasn’t a very nice doggie.”

“Ah.”

The struggling continues, and eventually the growling turns into a sharp whine. This time, Sam looks at you.

“I wasn’t very nice back.”

“No flower planters available?”

You roll your eyes and go back to listening to the wolf yelp and whine until the clip ends.

When it does, the screen switches to a file list. “Shit. Forgot to set them to all auto play.” Sam messes with the remote. “That one wasn’t too bad at all, though, huh?”

You scan the screen, trying to count how many videos you’re going to end up having to sit through. Halfway down the list though, one of the filenames has a weird format. A quick look at the date tells you that it should actually be one of the first of the videos on this card. “Hey, Sam. These aren’t in order.”

“Huh?” She squints her eyes and reads through the list. “Oh. Stupid camera. It was starting to do this thing where it would occasionally change the way it generated filenames. So thanks for ruining this one. I wanted to upgrade anyway.”

You have a feeling that she actually wanted to upgrade just to upgrade. The filename thing probably was an easy fix. Really doesn’t matter at this point, though. “But look at the one that’s messed up.” You nod towards the screen. “We should’ve seen it already.”

She squints at the screen again. “Mm. You’re right. It’s almost the earliest dated. Should we skip to it?”

“Might as well. The, uh, the way I change… I don’t really want to have a reminder of that right in the middle of whatever those others are.”

“Alright.” She highlights the file, but as usual, lingers before starting it. “You’re ready?”

You think for a second. “You know, I’m not sure what this one will even be.” You try to recall whatever this one event that occurred before you met up with Whitman could be, but you can’t pinpoint anything. “We’ll find out, I suppose.”

Sam hesitates for a second, giving you a chance to change your mind. But you say nothing, and she taps play.

There’s the tail end of a loud thunk and the view is spinning, although you do catch one foot passing by. It settles eventually and on the very edge of the screen you think you can see a fire flickering. “Huh.” You don’t recognize this, which you find very odd.

A faint mumble comes from the speakers, and it sounds familiar, but you can’t place it.

“Oh, fuck.” Your head snaps towards Sam. She seems to recognize this, and she takes a deep breath. Within a second, eyes flick from the screen, to you, to the screen, down to the remote, and finally back to you. It almost looks as though she’s panicking, and you don’t know why. She considers the remote for another half of a second, and then swears again before focusing back on the screen.

You don’t get it. Not until you hear the mumble again, and recognize it as the mumbling that Sam sometimes makes while she’s sleeping.

“ _Wha? Lara? What’s- woah!_ ” It’s Sam’s voice. Camera-Sam. “ _What are you? Let go!_ ” Her voice had started off sleepy, but it’s starting to become louder and more coherent. “ _The fuck? Get away from me!_ ” There’s a grunt, but it’s not Sam.

“ _Don’t try and fight your destiny, girl_.”

The grunt. The foot. That voice. They’re all Mathias’.

This is… You look at Sam, but her eyes are glued to the screen, and the only movement you can see is her shallow breathing. “Sam?”

“He kicked the fucking camera.”

“Sam?” She shakes her head, so you turn back to the TV.

There’s another grunt. “ _I said, don’t fight this._ ” Camera-Mathias sounds very calm.

“ _Stop grabbing at me and I’ll stop kicking you. Fucking- get away from me!_ ” Camera-Sam, however, does not sound calm at all. “ _What the hell is this? Lara? Where are y- Fuck! Let go of-_ “ A thump cuts her off.

“ _Get up, and come with me_.”

“ _What? No. No! Lara!_ ” You hear scrambling, and you assume that the thump was Sam falling, and the scrambling is her trying to get back up. “ _I’m not fucking going anywhere with you, you creep. I said, don’t-_ “ Camera-Mathias ‘oofs’, and Sam’s voice continues to raise. “ _Fuck off!_ ”

“ _Don’t make me angry, girl._ ” Footsteps shuffle around.

Neither of them speak for a moment, but feet come into view. One pair of them are walking steadily, the other pair are pulling back. Resisting. Starting to slip. “ _Get. Your fucking hands. Off me!_ ” The resisting feet suddenly stumble back, and camera-Sam yelps when she hits the ground. Camera-Mathias sighs, rather loudly, and you watch Sam’s hands and feet scramble as she pushes herself backwards. Her hands disappear as she’s jerked up, and you assume that camera-Mathias has yanked her up to stand again, based on the way she cries out.

“ _Stop resisting._ ”

“ _How about you stop whatever the fummph!_ ” The feet pass by the camera again, and the ones that were fighting before are being pulled back far more efficiently now. You can still hearcamera-Sam making noise (and you can tell, you _know_ that she’s yelling out your name again, yelling out for you), but everything is muffled. He must have gotten a hand over her mouth. The struggling, and the muffled shouting start going quieter and quieter until the pair of them are too far away for the camera to pick up.

Beside you, Sam is now hunched over, holding her head in her hands. You keep watching the recording. Not much else happens for half a minute.

Then you hear loud snore, a bit of a cough, and the view starts to shake around as camera-you rearranges herself. The camera eventually drops back onto the ground after camera-you settles, and you watch the new, empty view for another minute before it automatically switches off.

You feel sick.

Sam finally looks back over at you, but she doesn’t look upset about what _she_ just saw. Her brow is furrowed, in worry it seems, as her eyes search your face for any reaction.

There’s nothing to see, though, because you’re blank. You feel sick, and you feel blank.

And you might actually, truly, hate yourself.

“I slept though that.”

“Stop. Lara, please don’t-“

“ _I fucking slept through all of that?_ ”

A long stretch of silence ensues before Sam hesitantly answers your dumb question.

“…Yeah. You did.”

* * *

_and when she wakes, in her fragile state, well she calls my name, hoping that i keep her safe_

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i promised you shopping and i promised you something lighter after last chapter, right?
> 
> Speaking of last chapter, it's been a while. Sorry. There's a myriad of reason that's kept me from updating this, but hopefully we'll be good from here on.
> 
> And speaking of here on, I think we've got about 2-4 chapters left. This got far larger than I had intended, and when I look at my original ending, it's almost completely opposite what I have already partially written. Oh well.
> 
> So, there's a book by a dude called Grady Hendrix. It's called Horrorstör. Check it out. I swiped the Brooka and the floor plan of the store that is definitely not Ikea from it. And wow, I cannot remember the last time I've used double punctuation, but if anybody deserves to use it, it's overenthusiastic salespeople.
> 
> I was initially going to mention the giant error I made (and then cursed myself for), but I think I covered it not too bad. So instead I'm going to see if anybody can figure out what I'm talking about, and if they want to take a guess. :)
> 
> Was this too light for you? Do you prefer when I try to crush Sam & Lara? Watch for chapter 4 of Raidin' in the Rain. It should fulfill any angsty needs. Although next chapter will probably suffice as well, but you could probably guess that. Or the next Redux chapter. Fuck, I've got too many things started.
> 
> Next chapter! [doesn't have a title yet what a surprise] that's a lie i retract that, next chapter might be a little long and it has a title and it's The End


	16. The End

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I’m sorry.”
> 
> There’s a brief delay before she sighs. Even though you’re outside and there’s nobody around, she whispers when she says, “I know.” She half-pulls you from your seat, helps you balance yourself against her. “I know you are, Lara. I know.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Uh,” Sam looks at you, then down to the coffee table that’s now laying on its side. And all the debris that flew from it. Then a glance at your bleeding foot, and a final sweep over the broken mug responsible for the bleeding. “Well.”

You’re still breathing heavily, a side effect of the anger that kicked in after the few moments of silence that you spent absorbing Sam’s confirmation that yes, you did sleep through a large amount of noise while she was abducted.

****“I had a feeling that it might bother you. Perhaps upset you a bit.” She allows her feet to dangle back off of The Sofa. Somewhere around the time that you kicked the table over, she pulled them up, as a precaution. “I get the impression that I may have been correct about that, and in hindsight, that telling you may have actually, uh, prevented the bother and the upset.”

Trying to wear off some of the angry energy, you start pacing back and forth. Every other step, a sharp pain surges through your left foot. As you did with your knuckle, you focus on it. It still very much feels like an unhealthy option, but it’s also very much helping, right now. You’ve also inadvertently settled the debate about whether or not to purchase a new carpet.

“Mm. Okay. That’s… yikes. Now, Lara, I can’t say that I give a shit about the floor right now but, hm. If you want to keep, uh, moving around like that,” She winces for you, each time your foot hits the floor. “Would you at least let me… uh, I’m going to go find some tweezers? To, well, tweeze. The glass, that is. I’d like to tweeze the glass from your foot, if you’re alright with that.”

The initial burst of energy is actually starting to wear off, and choosing to ignore proper seating options, you drop down to the floor. You scootch around until you’re leaning back against The Sofa, and you take a slow, deep breath while you weakly give her the thumbs up.

“Okeedokiee. I’ll just be two seconds.” The smile that she tries to flash is more of a grimace. By the time she returns, you’ve started to tire, and you’ve slid down into a further slump. “Alright.” She snaps the tweezers that she’s retrieved a few times, and sits opposite you. Her hand reaches out for your foot, but pulls back before it gets halfway there. She tries again, and gets far enough to give the flat of your foot a quick poke. “Oh boy. That’s quite… I’m not sure I should do this? I mean, I can. But,” She sucks in a breath through her teeth. “That is really stuck in there.”

Now that your outburst is over and done with, shame has started to overtake the anger, and you slump even further. You stare at your lap, because you don’t think you can look Sam in the eye right now.

“It’s, yeah, it’s already bleeding quite a bit, y’know? I’m suddenly having second thoughts on, uh… I think I’d be breaking a dam? Like, I pull this out, and whoosh.”

“I’m not going to Emergency,” You mumble.

She sighs and runs a hand through her hair. “Of course you aren’t.” She shakes her head. “Listen, Lara, I get it. You’re mad at me,” Your eyes flick up, and you notice the fear in hers for the first time. “Whatever. Doesn’t matter. I fucked up, and yeah, I’m sorry, and yeah, I’m trying _really_ hard not to freak out right now, but whatever. Not really the important thing at the moment. I’ll… just, don’t fuck up your foot because you’re mad at me. Please.” She can’t tap her own foot, the way she’s sitting, so she rapidly taps the tweezers against the ground instead. “Look at it, please, and tell me that it’s something we can fix without the possibility of accidentally making it worse.”

You pull your leg towards you and look. Past your foot, you can see her fidgeting more and more. And she’s right. She can’t just yank out the chunk of glass that’s lodged there, slap a bandaid on it, and call it a day. You’ve already made it worse with your pacing. You’re feeling incredibly tired, now.

“You’re right. You are. We’ll go. I’m… I’m sitting here throwing a temper tantrum like I’m five years old. Except I’m not five years old, and I’m causing a hell of a lot more damage.” 

“Thank you.” Sounding slightly sad, she nods subtly, and stands up. When she extends her hand, though, you don’t take it. 

“Sam, I’m not mad at you.” 

She looks over at the table. “Sure.” 

You might hate yourself more than you did when you were busy flipping that table. “No. Sam, no. I’m mad at me. Okay? I’m incredibly angry with myself right now. More than angry. But you? I’m just sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t… I let him take you. That’s nothing I can change at this point, and I know that, but look what I’ve done anyway.” She glances at the table again. “Not that. Well, yes, I did that, but you. I scared you. I’ve gone and made everything worse.”

“Lara, you-“

“Yes, I did. 

“Lara-“

“Sam, I saw it. Don’t give me the ‘you wouldn’t hurt me’ lecture, because I can scare you other ways. And I did. Again. Second day in a row. And I wouldn’t… _couldn’t_ blame you if I did scare you… if you were afraid of me.” She doesn’t interrupt this time, and you don’t know how you should interpret that. “Girlfriend of the year, yeah? Wrecking everything?” You huff at yourself. “I’m sorry. Don’t think I’m upset with you, okay? It’s all me. This is all me. It’s me, and it’s a mess. I’m a mess. I don’t know what I can- I don’t think an apology is enough, for all this.” You don’t think you have the energy to monologue anymore, so you lean back and look up at her. “But still. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

She tilts her head and silently watches you for a few minutes, and you sit there letting her judge you—or whatever she’s doing—all she wants. You deserve it. Still silent, she walks away. You follow with your eyes until she’s out of sight and then hang your head. “It’s all me,” You mutter to yourself as you try not to consider all the possibilities of what Sam could be doing right now.

Something bounces off your chest and you snap back to reality. A roll of gauze is laying on the ground beside you.

She was only leaving to get bandages for you.

You don’t deserve this.

“Go hobble out to the car. I’ll make a few calls and try and figure out the least busy place we can limp into.” Her phone appears, and she starts tapping at it. “We’ll price out carpet samples in the waiting room,” She tells you as she starts dialling a number.

You smile weakly at her. You’ve not even started fixing this _disaster_ (and you’ve barely touched yesterday’s), and it seems that she’s going to pretend it never happened.

You feel ill again.

What _are_ you doing?

You really have no idea.

You’re doubting that you ever did.

Sam opens the car door for you. You look at your foot, which is severely over-bandaged. It’s more of a bloodied club right now. You have a blood-stained club for a foot, and you can’t walk on the club. You can’t walk on the club and you don’t have crutches, because who keeps crutches around, just in case? You don’t have crutches and you can’t walk so Sam is going to have to help you hop into a waiting room full of people who are going to stare at your club foot.

And then, you get to tell some doctor that you not at all delicately walked around with a shard of glass lodged in your foot for what could be considered—in most situations involving glass-impaled feet—an absurd amount of time.

Words can’t describe how thrilled you are about this situation, and even though Sam’s waiting, you linger in your seat.

You had been mostly silent during the drive. A result of the residual anger over how you let Mathias just take Sam away like that, yes. But mostly? You were silent because of the incredible shame that’s hanging over you, shame about what you’ve just done.

Sam’s still standing in front of you, waiting for you to get out of the car. She was also pretty quiet during the drive.

“I’m sorry.” You stare down at your club foot.

There’s a brief delay before she sighs. Even though you’re outside and there’s nobody around, she whispers when she says, “I know.” She half-pulls you from your seat, helps you balance yourself against her. “I know you are, Lara. I know.” Not only is The Look on her face, but you swear you can its vocal equivalent in her voice as well. “C’mon.” She jerks her head, pointing towards the door with her chin, and you start hopping towards the entrance.

You honestly did think that you had been making progress.

You're second guessing that now.

After checking in, you end up seated across a man with an arrow inexplicably lodged in his shoulder, which he seems far too happy about. The child sitting beside him—his son, presumably—looks nearly as guilty as you feel. For whatever reason, you feel can empathize with this kid, and you try to force a quick smile at him. He’s looking back at you with a pained expression when Sam shoves her phone in your face.

“What do you think about _Calico_?”

The ten shades of brown in front of you look nearly identical, and you’ve no idea which one is _Calico_. “I think it’s a type of cat.”

She pulls the phone back and grumbles.

“How about something darker? Probably does a better job covering stains.”

Rubbing at her temples, Sam makes a show of looking around the waiting room. “Lara. Do you really want to do this here?”

You look around as well, far more subtly, then glance over at her phone. “Well, we’re not getting anything like that polka-dot one.” You swipe the screen to the next page.

She exhales in relief.

Having a glass-free foot allows you to put pressure on it without the sharp pain that you had started getting used to. However, you still don’t really want to put _too_ much pressure on it, so you limp exaggeratedly from the car and into your flat.

And when you enter your living room, you see it all again. The physical mess you made. Seeing it makes you think about the figurative mess. Not that you had forgotten about it, not even close. You had just compartmentalized it, after Sam convinced you to stare at an endless series of carpets. You limp over and start cleaning things up.

Sam isn’t far behind you and she stops short when she sees you righting the table.

“What are you doing?”

You pick up a few of the larger pieces of glass from the floor and place them in a pile on the table. “Cleaning?” It seems pretty obvious to you.

“Right now?”

“Yes…” You don’t understand what’s so confusing. “Should I be doing something else?”

She walks over and pushes your pile of glass further down the table, out of your reach. “You could rest.” There’s another relatively large shard on the ground, and you consider starting a new pile. Sam must see you eyeing it, because she grabs both your hands, possibly to help comfort you but also effectively preventing you from doing much of anything. “Stop. We can clean this tomorrow. You have another large, stitched up hole in your body, so please, can you relax for at least the rest of the night?”

“I… I should fix this.”

“Just. Give yourself a break. Please.” She gently nudges you, and you hop sideways a few times. That godawful paisley blanket floats down over the glass pieces, the blood, the debris. Does a good job hiding everything.

It can’t hide what happened, though. “You can’t fix everything by throwing a blanket over it, Sam.”

“You can remember to step around this for half a day, can’t you?”

You sigh. “Sam, you know that’s not what I mean.”

Her hands appear to go on nervous autopilot; they run through her hair, and end up linked behind her neck. “I don’t- Lara, I don’t know what you want from me.”

You look down at the blanket and decide to leave it. It’s not worth the fight right now. As Sam instructed, you “rest” by dropping yourself down onto your bloodstained spot on The Sofa. “Nothing specific. Just a reaction? Any reaction. Almost anybody would be telling me to get out, now that I’m all de-glassed. Maybe even before.” She’s about to reply, and you know exactly what she’s going to say, so you don’t allow yourself a pause. “I know. That’s the last thing you want, I know that.” Your hands go up as if you’re surrendering. “Alright? I know that. But Sam, seriously.” You watch her tug on the back of her neck while she shifts her weight back and forth between her feet. She’s nervous, you know, but you feel it’s for the entirely wrong reason. “What I did, none of it was okay.”

“You aren’t okay.” She frowns and the nervous shifting stops.

“That doesn’t… I’m not. I know that too. But that doesn’t make any of this okay. It doesn’t excuse anything. All it does is help prove that fact. That I’m not okay.”

Again, she silently watches you for half a minute or so. The way she does that is starting to become slightly unnerving. She ends up on The Sofa beside you, and she considers you for another few seconds before rearranging, winding up laying with her head in your lap. She looks up at you. “It… I want to say ‘shit happens’, but I know you don’t want to hear that. It’s just, I don’t know. I don’t know. You said you’ve been having some, uh, anger issues? I think maybe we found one of the stems of that, y’know? Which is helpful, right? It’s… I wanna say that you just overreacted again, but I don’t think that’s what you want to hear either.” Her gaze drops to your foot. “I wasn’t afraid, by the way. Physically. If anything, I was just trying to stay out of the way? You were kinda- I was more worried that you’d hurt yourself. Which was a valid concern, I think.” You join her in looking down at your foot. You won’t disagree. “I mean, I guess I _was_ worried that you were angry with me, but. I get excessive about that, don’t I?”

“I didn’t just overreact, though. I… exploded. I was- I was just as angry as I was when I woke up and you were gone. Except…” You hesitate. The connection you just made, you don’t really want to say it out loud. “Except here, there was nobody around who was responsible for any of that anger. Nobody I could, uh, take it out on.”

“Lara, don’t. Don’t start thinking like that again. What you did was survival. For me and you. And Reyes and Jonah.”

You appreciate her patience with you, but. “ _I don’t want blind forgiveness for everything that I’ve done, and will do!_ ” Her eyebrows shoot up, and perhaps you said that a little too forcefully. “Sorry. But I just don’t understand it. Why is nobody holding me accountable for _anything?_ It’s always ‘it wasn’t your fault, Lara’. And fine, I’ll accept that getting us all into that mess wasn’t my fault. I’ll accept that a lot of things were out of my hands. But _my_ actions were entirely my own. I _chose_ to do what I did on Yamatai.”

She does the silent staring thing again, and starts chewing on her lip. Like she’s deciding what to say. After a minute or two, she sits up and faces you, pulling her legs up under her. “Lara. The circumstances you were in. Everything you did was under extraordinary circumstances.” Her hands travel up to cradle your face and she rests her forehead against yours. “Everything you’re dealing with now is a result of what happened due to those circumstances. The aftermath. It’s what those circumstances did to you. Okay?” You flick your eyes away from hers.“Hey. Please. I don’t know why you think that you shouldn’t be forgiven for your actions. It’s not blind forgiveness if there’s a reason for it, and it’s not a brave or noble act to take blame that you don’t deserve. I also don’t understand why you seem to _want_ to carry this weight around with you. Actually, I don’t even think that you _do_ want to; maybe it’s just more that you don’t know how to completely put that weight down. I know you’ve been trying, we talked about some of it. I can forgive you all I want, and I will, but in the end? You have to forgive yourself.”

You stay silent and allow your eyes to wander back to hers.

She sighs, and kisses your forehead as she drops her hands and pulls back. “You can’t go back and change things. You said that yourself. It’s in the past. I think you’re gonna have to accept that before we can fully move on. I thought you were starting to.”

“Fine. But that doesn’t mean that I can do this.” You look over at your mess. “I don’t think that’s part of the process.”

“I think the process is whatever it needs to be. So long as you don’t hurt anybody in that process. You haven’t. You’ve hurt yourself,” She gestures to your foot. “And I’d rather that not be part of the process, but whatever.” You glance down at your stomach. “Can’t change it now, right? I _want_ to help you get past this. I want to help myself get past this. Right now, we’re just doing the best we can. I don’t know what else to tell you. We’ve barely started, and you know this is going to take time. It’s going to take time, and it’s going to be bumpy. Why don’t you… I don’t understand why you suddenly don’t know any of this.”

You don’t want to talk about this any longer. You just want her to yell at you, or something. Act like she should, after what you did. Because it wasn’t okay. You can’t just go around losing your temper to that extreme. It really doesn’t seem like she’s going to, though.

“I’m going to… I’m tired. This was all really tiring, yeah?” You stand up and shuffle a few steps away. “And it’s, well, it’s getting late. You told me to rest. So, uh, I’m just going to go lie down. I’m- I’ll be in bed, okay?” You’re limping away before she has a chance to try changing your mind.

“Lara.” She still follows after you, though. “ _Lara._ ” There’s footsteps behind you, but when you don’t even look back, they stop. You don’t feel all that bad about it until you hear her muttering to herself, “I don’t know what more I can do.”

Turning around is still an option, an easy one, but you honestly don’t know if you can keep listening to her try to convince you that everything is fine when it clearly isn’t. So you choose the even easier option and keep hobbling towards your bed.

Sam has to coax you up and out of bed in the morning. You don’t understand why she does.

After a quick shower that’s more out of habit than anything else, you drop some charred toast onto a plate and settle down on the sofa. Just as you hit the little red button on the remote, Sam walks by and sighs when she see the buffering Netflix screen. “What are you watching?”

“Anything but that documentary show.” You force a bite of toast.

The remote gets plucked out of your hand and you watch the recommend shows flicker away. “Okay, Lara, go ahead and sulk. I honestly do not know what else to tell you right now. But the delivery clones are showing up today, so _please_ can you go back into cleaning mode before they show up? I’ll help you, and then you can work on going back to how everything was a week ago.”

Her tone jars you. It isn’t hesitant, it isn’t tainted with fear, and she doesn’t seem fidgety or worried. She seems frustrated. “I don’t…” You mumble at her, “You don’t have to help. It’s my mess. I’m the one who screwed up.”

She closes her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose and maybe she is frustrated with you. “Lara, I don’t understand how you make one mistake—yes, maybe it was a rather drastic mistake—and just give up. Say you’re done.”

“I haven’t-“ You try to rebut.

“Look.” You try to, but you’re not sure what she’s referring to, because all she’s looking at is you. “Look what you’re doing. The same thing you were doing before we started trying to fix ourselves. Watching Netflix and ignoring the obvious.”

“You’re ignoring things just as much as I am.”

Another sigh, and she’s sitting beside you. “No, I’m not. I’m _trying_ to tell you that what you did isn’t the end of the world. You were angry, you went overboard. _I acknowledge that,_ and I forgive that _._ I also acknowledge that these things are going to happen. We aren’t going to get through all this without our emotions flying all over the place. In fact, they already have. They’ve been up and down and up again since the beginning, and I don’t understand what about this particular incident is pushing you to give up.”

You say nothing.

“I don’t want to… I can’t watch you sit around like this, wasting your days thinking about things that you can’t change or decisions you could have made differently. So please, Lara. Give me a reason, and maybe it might make sense. Maybe I might let you go back to this shit again; let you keep dwelling on the past. But tell me _why_ what happened yesterday is apparently the breaking point.”

Your brow furrows as you think. Giving up isn’t what you thought you were doing. Now that you’re thinking about it, you don’t really know what you think you’re doing. “I don’t know.” Yeah, you were quite angry, and you acted on that, but really, that wasn’t the first time. “I…”

“Exactly. I think you’re punishing yourself, condemning yourself, because I refuse to. Because you didn’t mean any of that. I know that for a fact, just like I know you would _never_ do something like that intentionally. Ever. That’s why we’re doing this Lara. How are we supposed to fix things without finding out what we’re fixing?”

You say nothing. For a different reason, this time.

“So now we say, ‘alright, Lara is obviously bothered by the fact that she didn’t notice Mathias carting Sam away, how do we move past this?’ Like we’ve been doing with everything else. You lost your shit over it, sure. But can we actually say that we’ve been calm about anything so far?”

You blink a few times before a small smile appears on your face. “When did you become the logical one?”

“When you needed me to be. And hey,” She smiles back. “It’s not like I haven’t knocked shit over before.” You chuckle and she catches you off guard when she kisses you.

Maybe you were right, in thinking that you’re making progress. Maybe that was just a minor bump in the road.

By the time the delivery clones show, everything’s been cleaned up, minus the blanket covering your carpet blood. After the clones announce themselves, they haul your new _Brooka_ into the living room, and you see them exchange a glance when they see The Sofa. You find that you’re not really bothered. You’re just glad it’ll finally be gone.

Sam stares at you like you’re absolutely mad when you suggest rearranging the entire room to cover the blood on the carpet. You figure you’ll leave it to her to pick out a new one, and settle on pushing the _Brooka_ into a somewhat suitable spot for the time being.

Then the two of you collapse onto it, after agreeing that you should take a day off.

It’s a depressing thought that you need to take a day off from your life, but curled up with Sam and a bunch of blankets, you end up not really caring. Despite her initial reaction to the red Netflix screen, you end up marathoning terrible disaster movies for hours. You start to feel yourself actually relaxing around the time you start the second volcanic catastrophe movie of the day.

When you finally haul yourselves to bed, you end up snuggled together about as close as possible, as per the norm.

“Thank you.”

You feel the rumble against your shoulder blade when Sam replies, “Hm?”

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh.” Her arm wraps a little more protectively around you. “You mean ordering a pizza with vegetables on it? No problem.”

“See?” You chuckle. “There you go. No need to shrug it off as nothing.”

“Guess you’re right. Lara?”

“What?” You grin. “You have something else to confess?”

“Love you.”

“Oh. Well. I love you, too.”

Sam nods off fairly quickly, but you stay awake a little longer, replaying the day. Feels like it’s been forever since the two of you have been able to comfortably huddle together and laugh and joke and watch movies like you did today. It was almost as if Yamatai never happened.

Problem is, you think you might have watched one too many disaster movies. Because you can’t shake the weird feeling that this was just the calm before the shark infested tornados start raining down.

In the morning, you’ve got breakfast made and on the table before Sam makes it out of the shower. She smirks. “Now, that’s more like it.”

“So that’s it. You only wanted me out of bed to provide an edible breakfast.”

She shrugs before grabbing a piece of bacon.

To switch things up, you sit on the counter beside Sam as she washes the dishes. You’re sure that you’re far less intrusive that she is, though that doesn’t stop you from pointing out multiple spots that she “missed” on various dishes.

When she finishes, she spends an unusual amount of time watching water swirl down the drain. She continues staring at the drain as she says, “I want to take another day off.”

“Yeah.”

“I don’t know if we should.”

“I know.”

“We could end up taking days off until we’re back where we started.”

“Yeah.”

The rag she was holding wetly plops into the sink. You look down at her from the counter. “So what’s on the menu for today, then?”

After a moment of thought, you hop off the counter. “I don’t really want to go out. I don’t… it’s too much sometimes. I don’t want that today. When we’re outside, we have to make it back inside before I can calm down.”

“Camera?”

There’s nothing else you can think of. Might as well stir up some more shit.

“Guess so.”

Sam’s camera set up routine takes a little longer again, as everything had to be cleared away during the couch moving procedure. You take the time to prepare yourself for whatever you might see. Beyond Vladimir, you can’t pick out events that would have jolted the camera to life. Time to find out.

“You’re sure?” Sam’s poised with the remote in her hand again.

“Please stop asking me that every time.” You take control of the remote, hit play, and toss it back into her lap. The footage you see is very still, and you think you can see one of your feet.

“ _It’s not that bad._ ” Oh, god. His voice. You haven’t heard it in so long. “ _Where does a young lady lake you learn to do a thing like that?_ ” You’ve told yourself that you’d do anything to hear Roth’s voice just one more time, but you don’t know if this is the way you want it to happen.

Sam peeks over at you. You look back at her and hope that she can’t see the tears that you can already feel welling. “Must have turned on when I sat down.” She nods, and doesn’t say anything further, which you’re grateful for.

“ _Late shift at the nine bells. A wolf’s got nothing on a broken bottle._ ” You smile briefly, when you hear his laugh.

“ _Hey, you got it. Nice work._ ”

“The radio,” You tell Sam. She acknowledges you with a hum.

“ _So, I assume the plan is to take that up to the radio tower?_ ”

You already know the words to this, so you zone out slightly and just listen to the sound of Roth’s voice. God, you miss him.

“Lara?”

Sam’s voice startles you—you were quite invested in not actually hearing words—and you look over at her.

Naturally, The Look is on her face. “You’re okay?”

“I miss him.”

She hums an acknowledgement at you again, and sniffs once before turning back to the screen.

“- _do it Lara. After all, you’re a Croft._ ”

You wince.

“ _I don’t think I’m that kind of Croft.”_

You’re starting to take uneven, shaky breaths, and you try to focus on staying calm.

“ _Sure you are. You just don’t know it yet._ ”

Your shaky breath hitches as you feel a tug at your side. It’s different, a little sharper than you’re used to, and you pull your eyes away from the screen and look down. You look down, and you see blood. You look down and when you pull your hand from under your shirt, you see a tiny, tiny, stitch between your fingers. A stitch from the set you were meant to have removed relatively soon. You’ve done the job yourself, but far too early. That breaking point that Sam mentioned? The one that you hadn’t actually gotten to? You think that you may have just blown past it.

You crumple, quicker than normal, and your head skips your hands and drops behind your knees, when you pull your legs up. Your arms wrap around your shins, and if you weren’t already on the brink of tears, you would be around the time you start swearing to yourself. “Fuck.” Sam looks over at you, and you drop your voice to a whisper, as if that’ll cause her to shrug it off. It might have, had your voice not cracked on the single syllable. “Fuck.”

“Lara? Are you- no, let’s skip that. You aren’t okay.” Ignoring her, you swear to yourself again. “I know this is maybe one of the harder clips we’ll have to watch but, uh… I don’t. What’s wrong? Did I miss something big?”

You can still hear the recording going, and you really don’t want to. “Can you pause that? Mute it? Can you stop it, somehow, please?” Her hand instantly flies to the remote, and everything goes quiet. “Thank you.” She abandons her end of the _Brooka_ , but you stop her, with one word and without looking up. “Don’t.”

“Okay.” Slight panic tinges her voice. It’s not her fault, but she doesn’t know that. “Could you, uh, could you maybe look at me, at least?”

_No_. You shake your head.

“Okay. That’s… that’s okay. But what’s wrong? I don’t understand what just…” Everything is silent again when she trails off. It ends quick enough though, but when Sam speaks up, her voice isn’t much above the silence. “Your hand.”

“Isn’t bleeding.” You drop the stitch, hoping it’s visible to her.

“Wait, then what-“

“I can’t do this. I can’t do this, Sam. It isn’t working. I can’t keep doing this.”

“We don’t have to. The camera isn’t going anywhere, we can just stop, and-“

“Not _this_ , this _. Everything_ this _. All of this absolute fucking shit._ I can’t. I know you _just_ picked me back up. You just had to convince me to keep going with this, but it isn’t working. It’s not working. Look at me. Does it look like this is working?”

“Okay, uh, Lara? Lara, you’re scaring me a bit. I’m… I don’t know what’s happening right now. You’re not. You promised me that-”

“You’ve been doing everything. You’ve been doing so much, and I can’t tell you how much that means to me. But I can’t. Just look at me.” 

“It’s- Lara. I… You told me I could believe you. Or? I don’t completely know what you’re saying? Are you- I don’t see what’s… we’re working on this. Aren’t we working on this?” Panic is even more evident in her voice. “You just agreed that we’d keep working on this. You _just_ told me that you weren’t going to give up on this. That you weren’t going to… give up.”

“Yeah. I know I did. I did. But I’m… look at me, Sam.” When she doesn’t reply, you release your grip on your legs and run your hand over your side. You still don’t look up, but you wave your hand, now covered with slightly more blood, at her. “Just fucking look at this.”

She says nothing, and you assume it’s because she _is_ looking.

“I tore them out. Again. The stitches.” 

“Lara, that’s okay, we can get you patched up again. It’s okay, Lara-“

“That’s what I haven’t been able to tell you. That I ripped them out myself. And I’ve done it again.” An utterly humourless chuckle escapes you. “I don’t even know why. It just happened. Happens. Like everything else. Everything just happens. I _don’t know_ what I’m doing. Sam, I still have no idea what I’m doing. What am I doing? Is any of this even making a difference? I thought it was, and then I doubted. Then you convinced me it was but now I’m… _What the fuck am I doing?_ ”

“Lara…”

You finally look up at her. And that’s when your vision starts to blur beyond your control. “I can’t do this, Sam. I need help. I can’t do this alone, I don’t think I can do this that way. I know you’re here, and I wish that was enough. But it’s not. I can’t do this, I can’t do this anymore. I need help.” You curl your head back against your thighs, and take a shaky breath. “I need help, Sam. Look at me. I need…”

She exhales deeply, and takes a few steadying breaths. “Help. You’re _not_ saying that you’re… Or that you want to… Okay, yeah. Some help. Yeah, we can get that.” She sounds exceptionally relieved. Sounds happy? “We can get that. But right now, can I please?” You chew on your lip, hoping it might stop the tears, and nod. She scootches over, and pulls you towards her in a sort of a hug, the best she can do, the way you’re sitting. Some of your blood spreading over to her, but she doesn’t seem to care. “We can do that. We can definitely do that.”

“Huh? We?”

“Yep. We’re…” Her voice mirrors yours, and goes slightly off pitch, and she clears her throat before continuing. “We’re in this together, right? And I know you can see it a little more now, but. You aren’t the only one who could use a little help.”

“I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head. “What? What do you have to be sorry about?”

Honestly, you’re not sure. You just feel that you should be sorry about this. About everything. “I just am.”

“Lara, there is not a single thing for you to apologize for right now. If anything, I should be saying sorry, for letting us try to do this on our own. But we’re gonna change that now.” She pulls back enough to look you in the eye. “We’ll start this all over. I mean, we did make some progress, and we won’t ignore that. But we’ll find some help and start from the beginning again, okay?”

“Yeah,” You croak out.

“Good. So hey, I think this is the part of our story where we wipe the dirt and the dust and blood away and get back up. We get back up and let the bruises and the wounds start to heal. Properly.” When she wipes at a trail of your tears, your feel her smudge a thicker, stickier, substance over the cleaned space. “Get back up for good. Maybe better than ever, by the end.” She’s trying to be inspirational while doing the literal opposite of what she’s saying. She’s just wiped some of your own blood onto your cheek. The sheer ridiculousness of it is what causes you to burst out laughing, in between the tears.

She looks at you, then at her hand, and laughs along for a moment. “I don’t think I phrased that very well. Those kinda speeches are probably best left for movies, huh? But really, I think this is it, Lara. One of us had to say it… admit it, eventually. That we _do_ need help. And you just did. I think you just pushed our lives back onto the rail.” 

The crying is starting to slow down, and you laugh a few more times.

You’re smiling when you nod at her.

* * *

_we've been hurt_  
_we carry the wounds_  
_we keep going  
_ _no matter the cost_

* * *

You’re outside. Relaxed. Walking down the street. Calmly. Quietly, as well. You’ve been content just taking in the scenery. It’s too easy to take for granted, you’ve realized. But when Sam tugs on the hand you’ve currently got entwined with hers, you look over at her.

“Hey, Lara. You ever think about all this, and just… maybe it wasn’t some random horrible tragedy. I mean, it obviously was, but. Maybe it was meant to happen to us. Like, what would we be doing now if it hadn’t?”

“Seriously?” Perhaps you misheard parts of that.

“Well, not the whole thing about being fucked up, but, y’know. Where we’re gonna go from here. We learned things. In the shittiest fucking way, but we learned things. About what’s really out in the world. I mean, I don’t know what we’ll do with that information, but we know it now.” She bumps your shoulder. “And I think we _might_ have learned some stuff about ourselves as well, huh? I’m not saying that I’m happy it happened, but, think about it. Where would we be right now without it? What would we be doing? Maybe this exact thing, minus the trauma. But maybe not. Maybe it had to happen. To get us on the track towards what we’re meant to be doing. To becoming who we’re meant to be?”

You snort. “Never really took you as the destiny type.”

“I dunno. Just been thinking about things.” She shrugs. “It’s… easier to deal with, if it was supposed to happen. So maybe this is all just me being selfish.”

You lean over and plant a quick kiss on her cheek. “Well, maybe you’re right. Who knows. But ’why’ is starting to matter less and less to me, you know? There’s no use for that anymore. So let’s just get started on becoming those people, yeah?”

“S’long as we do it together.”

“Wait. You mean there’s some other way?”

She smiles, and you grin at her in return.

You’re going to get your life back. 

* * *

_new skies will find us, it seems the worst is behind us, clouds once filled with rain now separate, and start to make way_  
_gone is the gray, the end of the thunder_

* * *

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> took three tries to get this going without destroying their relationship in ways that i couldn't figure out how to repair and golly you have no idea how hard it was to not type "oh there goes gravity" when sam tosses the bandages at lara, although i said it in my head every time i re-read it and on that point yes i realized wrapping a bandage around something impaled in your foot would potentially just shove it in further but just go with it okay and on the topic of just go with it, please ignore the fact that sam hasn't gone to work or whatever for quite some time
> 
> So.
> 
> We're done. Gosh.
> 
> Thanks for sticking around and reading a sad story about fictional characters not doing much other than being sad!
> 
> I believe this is actually the first time I've completely finished a story.
> 
> I never intended for them to go out and get outside help, but... that's not realistic. I know realistic is not quite the point of fanfiction, but as it strayed from my original plan, this story started to get a little closer to me than I intended, and, I don't know. I wanted this for them. They're fictional so that sounds stupid but whatever.
> 
> Sam's shitty inspirational speech partially comes from a Kelly Sue DeConnick #bgsd message, so thanks to her for that ridiculousness. I'm going to be presumptuous and credit the quote that I dropped near the end in an attempt to create an illusion of time passing to Ray Fawkes, as he wrote issue seven of Gotham by Midnight, which is where I pulled it from.
> 
> And we all get the shoulder arrow joke, right? Surely we've all seen the TR version of that tumblr post.
> 
> alternative dubstep song for this chapter, because i am trash™: Legends by Razihel, the vanilla version or the Hyper Potion remix if you prefer
> 
> and oh hey, do you remember when i joked about making a dubstep playlist? yeah, i did that. it's on 8tracks. you can probably find it pretty easily.
> 
> (SUCK IT, CRYSTAL DYNAMICS. THEY CAN GET WELL TOGETHER, THEY CAN GET WELL TOGETHER BETTER THAN THEY COULD APART. TAKE YOUR COMICS AND [censored].)


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